Beware the Frozen Heart
by Crystallic Rain
Summary: [Frozenlock AU] When Moriarty forces King Mycroft to leave the kingdom, it is up to Sherlock to convince him to return and put a stop to Moriarty's plans. However, when things take an icy turn, Mycroft must repair the bond with his brother, with the help of Lestrade and John. But can Sherlock's heart really be frozen when the prince claims that he doesn't have one?
1. Born of Cold and Winter Air

**Beware the Frozen Heart  
**

_Born of cold and winter air_  
_and mountain rain combining,_  
_this icy force both foul and fair_  
_has a frozen heart worth mining._

* * *

**Notes: **Story and chapter titles from "Frozen Heart" from the Frozen soundtrack. There are many references to various Disney kingdoms, minor Sherlock characters, Medieval weapons and poisons/substances/"drugs".

This is not merely a rewrite of the movie with the names of Sherlock characters, but an attempt to take the overall plot of Frozen and change it to properly fit the characters, also incorporating parts of the original Sherlock plot. So I hope you enjoy what's come out of it!

Also, I am now on AO3 as **imatrisarahtops.** Find me.

* * *

Sherlock could faintly hear as Mistress Hudson called his name, off somewhere down the corridor, undoubtedly to inquire as to whether or not he was ready. He mentally rolled his eyes at what she would say—most likely something about how the day was so _important_ and meant to be _memorable_ and it would _change things within the kingdom_.

_Hardly_.

Instead, he focused on the book that was in front of him, fingers tracing over maps and diagrams and words, committing them all to memory. Perhaps if there was any change that did come from the day—any change that mattered, really—it would be in convincing his brother to _leave him be_ at last. Maybe he could convince Mycroft of his deserved freedom, instead of being locked up inside of the castle like a prisoner. If he wanted to keep _himself_ hidden away with lock and key, that hardly mattered to Sherlock—but he shouldn't be held to the same rules. Prince or not.

"Your highness?" Mistress Hudson's voice filtered through the door as she rapped on the wood. He could hear as she huffed out a sigh. "I know you're in there, Sherlock!" she called, and his lips twitched as she dropped the formality, as she often did when she thought he was acting petulantly. "You best be ready, it's _coronation day_!"

Sherlock let out a breath and rolled his eyes at the empty room. He was perfectly aware of the day, yet he still had no actual desire to attend the celebration. It was his sincere hope that he'd be able to hide away in the vast library like he did most of his days. He didn't care for the company, and he didn't care for pretending that today was of any importance.

He could hear the jangling outside of the room that signified that Mistress Hudson had at last fished out the set of keys she had (given to her particularly for this reason, as the one left with the responsibility that was the prince) and was finding the one that fit the lock. After a moment he could hear the metal sliding, as the door was unlocked. He did not even look up from his book as the heels of Mistress Hudson's shoes clicked across the floor.

"_Sherlock_," she said, and he could hear the mild disapproval in her voice. He glanced up and could see that her arms were folded over her chest. He raised an eyebrow by way of response. "You need to be ready for your brother's coronation."

"Why?" he asked stubbornly, his voice flat.

"It would mean a lot to him for you to be there," she responded with the same simplicity.

At this, Sherlock scoffed. The idea was ludicrous—that Mycroft could possibly care if his brother was at the celebration naming him king. "I'm certain he'll survive," he told the lady evenly, though his words were clipped. "If he can easily go months at a time without so much as a word to me, I think that he can manage without my presence for one more day before he goes back into hiding."

Mistress Hudson tutted at this. "_Sherlock_," she repeated, though this time the word was laced with sadness.

Instantly Sherlock snapped the book shut, leaving it on the desk to resume his consumption of information later. At the moment, he wanted nothing to do with the woman and her _pity_. It was positively horrid, and he couldn't bear another second. He pressed past her.

"And where are you headed off to _now_?" she asked exasperatedly.

"To prepare for this evening," he snapped, not turning to look at her as he walked out of the library. He could faintly hear her call after him once more but he ignored it, promptly making his way to his bedroom. He shut and locked the door, satisfied that Mistress Hudson wouldn't force her way into there as well. Still, he settled himself onto his bed and glowered at the door for a moment, as though challenging it to open.

After a few moments, he let out a sigh of slight relief and reclined against his pillows. He folded his hands together and rested them at his chin, his fingertips just brushing over the bottom of his lip. He inhaled through his nose and let himself revel in the moment of peace; he knew that it would be the last moment he'd be given that day.

And it was all thanks to his giant oaf of a brother—_Mycroft_. He couldn't bring himself to see a legitimate reason to attend the festivities. What had Mycroft done to show his brother that he cared for his welfare in the slightest? Nothing of any true significance in the past fifteen years, as far as Sherlock could see; nothing that truly meant anything.

He could still remember the day when suddenly the door had become locked, and things had changed. He'd only been six at the time, but he could still remember the stark difference between the days before and after, how Mycroft had suddenly gone from being a friend (ridiculous, Sherlock thought now, because he didn't have or need any friends) to being a distant figure whose presence in the castle was often easy to write off or forget altogether. Not that Sherlock ever did forget, but he could pretend that he did.

He spent a year attempting to solve the mystery, to understand why suddenly Mycroft withdrew completely from him. Etched into his memory was the day that Mycroft finally snapped, and the fourteen-year-old prince opened the door and stared coldly at his seven-year-old brother and six words fell from his lips: "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

The words hadn't hurt him; not like he had half-expected. Instead he recoiled slightly and felt as the ice of Mycroft's statement seeped under his skin and into his very soul.

After that, Sherlock took the implied advice and stopped caring. He had no reason to make another attempt at The Mystery of the Locked Door. Mycroft didn't wish to know him anymore; it was (maybe) that simple. (But why, why, _why_?)

However, the affection for his brother wasn't all that had slipped away from Sherlock since then. He pretended not to notice as his father grew steadily angrier as he drove away numerous tutors and other members of the castle staff. Still, he saw no point in filtering the observations he made about them and their lives. And how was it his fault if they were offended by the truth, anyway?

And as his father's frustration with his younger son grew, Sherlock silently watched as his mother's health declined in turn. He knew the two weren't correlated; it wasn't logical, but then he'd been assured of his conclusion when his mother had only chuckled and ruffled his dark curls when he commented on the physician's pathetic home life.

After, his father had shouted at him for being so foolish, then gone to try to convince the physician—the _best physician in the kingdom, Sherlock!_—to return. Once the man had left the room, his mother had looked at him with a weak smile and said, "Don't mind him, love. You're _brilliant_. You don't need to change that."

He supposed that he could learn to hold his tongue, as his father advised. But then, when his mother's last remaining bit of life had escaped her lips, he determined that it didn't matter. And again, his brother's words echoed in his brain: _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.

So at the age of twelve, Sherlock was left alone. His mother was dead, his brother was almost constantly locked away, and his father was distant and angry. To his credit, it was then that his father had hired Mistress Hudson to take care of him—though, Sherlock figured, this was mostly so that he didn't have to bother with his younger son any longer. He had more important things to concern himself with than a misbehaving prince.

It didn't matter much to him. Sherlock found it far easier to slip out of the castle and into the outlying town when he was under the supposedly watchful eye of Mistress Hudson. And when the guards would finally drag him back from whatever trouble he was found causing, Mistress Hudson would forbid the guards to say a word and involve the king, and then fuss over Sherlock instead of reprimanding him.

Sherlock cared greatly for the lady, though he never verbally admitted it. He kept his affection well-concealed, though sometimes she would smile at him knowingly. And he supposed that if she didn't run away, then she must care for him a bit, in return.

But where was Mycroft during this time? Where had he been at the death of their mother? Where had he been when their father had passed, only two years ago? Where had he been all of those times that Sherlock felt so hollow and alone?

And Sherlock was certain that the soon-to-be king was made aware of the various states he'd been in. He was aware that someone—most likely one of the guards who always found him when he ran off—was giving Mycroft the information. Still, Mycroft merely stood back and (figuratively, considering his hermit-like status) watched. Even when he had disappeared for more than three weeks, finally discovered in the outskirts of the neighboring town, abusing opium and henbane and several compounded substances that weren't even recognizable with a few equally questionable vagabonds and beggars, Mycroft had made no physical appearance. Instead, when the last of the constant fog that had overtaken him had cleared, he was met with a young lady, only a few years older than him. She looked at him with gentle eyes and an expression that read disappointed, and he hated it.

What was more was his hatred that he was so familiar with the expression.

"Who are you?" he ground out impatiently, trying to sit up, but she instantly pressed him down onto his back again.

"Lay down, your highness," she ordered. "Your brother requested my presence." Her hands were gentle, not as clinical as he had initially expected.

"That doesn't answer my question," he snapped.

Her hands froze for a moment before turning to a table beside the bed where there was an array of equipment and various bottles and jars of different colors. "My name is Molly, my lord," she responded, and there was something about her voice that sounded constantly unsure of herself; he wondered if she always sounded that way, or if it was merely him. Mistress Hudson had admonished him for being such an overwhelming, intimidating presence, one that occupied such a large area in even the smallest spaces he occupied. "I've been studying under another healer in the citadel—"

"A _healer_," Sherlock scoffed. He shifted himself up on his pillows slightly, already feeling restless; he wondered how long he'd been confined to his bed, while shifting in and out of consciousness since he was recovered. Had it been days? "I have nothing that needs to be _healed_, so you can leave—"

"You're wrong, my lord," she stated shortly. "With all respect, sire," she added hastily and apologetically. It nearly surprised him, however, that she managed to stood her ground as she made her declaration. "His highness knows that you are suffering. And, well, my father suffered much the same way."

Sherlock huffed out a cold laugh. "So this is an attempt at a solution?" he asked her bitterly. "Why doesn't _he_ do something if I'm apparently suffering so greatly?"

Molly was silent for a moment as she looked at the bottles on the table before picking up one that was an ugly murky green color. Hesitantly she took a seat beside the bed and looked at the prince. "I believe that yes, this is his attempt, my lord," she said quietly, once again looking afraid that she might be overstepping her boundaries, yet still confident that she was telling the truth. "And even if you don't view it as an appropriate one, you must know that you are cared for greatly, sire. You have a kingdom that looks to you, whether or not you believe it. And there are those who would do whatever they can to help better you, regardless of that status."

Sherlock looked at her strangely. There was an odd comfort in her words, though a stubborn part of his mind questioned what _she_ knew—just a young healer, one who hadn't spent more than a quarter hour with him—at least, while he was conscious. Surely her words bore no actual meaning. And it didn't matter, anyway. He didn't need anyone; he may not be necessarily content with it, but he had accepted that he would always be alone.

"I don't need _pity_ or _sympathy_," he told her coldly. "I don't need anyone."

Her eyes looked increasingly sad at this, and she looked down at her lap, shaking her head minutely. Still, she did not argue as she poured a small amount of the horrible-looking liquid with its molasses-like consistency into a tiny wooden cup and handed it to him. She had ensured he drank it in its entirety before leaving the room silently.

It had been a year, and still Molly had stayed. He supposed that was Mycroft's doing, as well; probably another way to keep an eye on Sherlock without any actual interaction.

And still the question burned his insides: _why_? According to Molly and Mistress Hudson, Mycroft _cared _(in some strange, distant way, if it was true), so _why_ was he so determined to stay so far back? Was it only a sense of duty? Was it merely determined pride, so that the rest of the kingdom wouldn't know what his irresponsible brother got into? Why was Mycroft doing _any_ of this?

Sherlock let out a disgruntled noise and swung his legs over the side of his bed, forcing himself up. Mistress Hudson had tried to convince him that the sooner he got ready and busied himself with the coronation and celebrations, the sooner they would be over. He saw no point in trying to argue with her that time was a constant and could not occur more quickly or slowly, and she was merely making an argument of perception, which mattered not when he dreaded every second between now and when he'd find himself returning to his studies.

He supposed the least he could do was attend the ceremony; if not for his brother, then because Mistress had asked it of him.

* * *

Mistress Hudson knocked softly on the bedroom door roughly an hour later. "Are you ready, sire?"

There was no response so she sighed, then attempted the door to see if it was locked; it, surprisingly, wasn't.

"My lady."

Mistress Hudson glanced up at the boy—well, she silently reasoned, he was a young man, now, hardly the child she first met, though he may still act like it. Still, she smiled warmly at the prince, who was standing at his desk, examining the contents of a small wooden box. Sherlock looked up and Mistress Hudson wordlessly closed the distance between them. She stared at him expectantly.

Sherlock looked down at the box. "This was my mother's," he said, and Mistress glanced down at the silver bracelet, a pale sapphire in the center.

"She favored you," Mistress Hudson told him playfully and the corners of his lips quirked upward slightly, though he did not smile completely.

He took the bracelet out from the velvet lining of the box, and the sapphire appeared a deeper blue in contrast to his skin. Gently he reached for the woman's wrist and clasped the silver chain around it. "It was never exactly intended for me to keep," he told her.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "I hardly think that your nursemaid would be what your mother had in mind when she left this to you."

"Well, there's certainly no other woman who would be fit to wear it."

"Perhaps not now, but..." He fixed her with a stare and she sighed. "Only for the night, then," she said firmly and he smiled slightly.

"We'll see," he told her and she laughed, swatting at him playfully.

"Thank you," she said. "It's very kind of you, dear."

"Don't tell the gentry," he responded. "I have appearances to keep up."

She chuckled. "Oh, you!" she said exasperatedly. "Whatever am I going to do with you, sire?"

"I'm sure you'll determine something." He smiled. "Now, I suppose you have other duties to attend to, now that you've seen for yourself that I am indeed prepared for the evening."

Mistress Hudson nodded, her other hand smoothing over the bracelet. "I will see you once everything has started," she said, and it sounded less like an assurance of her presence and more of a demand for his own.

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "You've ensured that I will be in attendance." He waved her off.

She sighed and departed from the room. Only a moment later, another woman entered.

"Good afternoon, your highness," Molly said, curtsying before the prince. After a moment, Sherlock still did not respond in greeting as he continued his final preparations for the evening, adjusting his collar and coat, pulling white gloves over his hands. "I saw what you did for Mistress Hudson," she blurted out after a moment. "That was—that was very kind of you."

Sherlock was silent for a while as he looked back down at the now empty box on his desk. "There is no one else I could fathom giving it to," he told her.

"Yes, of course." She blushed. "Well, I—I just thought that—"

"That it was a kind gesture," Sherlock finished. "Yes, you said." He turned to Molly. "Mistress Hudson is ultimately a mother to me. It's only appropriate that the last bit of my mother that I possess now belongs to her." He glanced down at the young woman's hands and raised an eyebrow.

Molly looked down at her hands, blushing furiously. "Oh," she said. "I—er—this is for you." She held out the golden-colored flower, her cheeks a deep pink as Sherlock took it from her.

"Calendula," he commented, examining the flower. "A type of marigold." He looked up at her. "Generally used in healing to help cure irritations of the skin, eyes, or mouth, though you would know that, of course..." She nodded vaguely as he twirled the flower in between his forefinger and thumb. "Said to represent grief and despair. It symbolizes sorrow."

"Oh god," Molly bemoaned, her eyes widening and a hand flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, I—well, I didn't know... It was just, well—"

"Pretty?" Sherlock offered. "Deceiving. Though perhaps not as much as, say, foxglove or oleander, with their toxicity." He chuckled. "Even you should know about those."

Molly stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry, sire," she said again. "I wanted to—well, it—it doesn't matter."

Sherlock glanced at her curiously for a moment. "It is," he said after a moment, and her head snapped up, looking at him with uncertainty.

"It is what?" she asked warily.

"Pretty," he clarified. "I could..." He trailed off and positioned the flower against his chest before sifting through the items on his desk to find a pin, which he used to secure it.

She smiled hesitantly at him, still looking sheepish and otherwise completely unsure of herself.

He offered the girl his hand. "We must be on our way," he told her. He nodded toward his hand and she cautiously placed hers in his, her cheeks once again reddening. He bowed slightly to her, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, they were a little brighter and she was smiling genuinely. "To the coronation, then, my lady."

* * *

Sherlock gazed across the ballroom, glancing at the nobility and royalty of the neighboring kingdoms, all attending the coronation ceremony and resulting celebrations. His mind insistently reeled with deductions and observations about the guests, easily seeing what each and every detail meant about their lives and the secrets they held, reading them through the very lines on their faces.

Occasionally a man or woman of the gentry (nobility was, strictly speaking, too important to be mingling with the spare son, now that the oldest had officially been named king) would approach him, offering congratulations (for his brother, as though it made sense to congratulate him on becoming even less important in the eyes of the public) and attempt conversation. It only took a few moments with any of them for him to grow bored of the interaction, however, and he'd make hurried comments that would lead to them scurrying as quickly as they could without appearing rude—though, honestly, the social niceties didn't bother Sherlock in the least.

He glanced down at his goblet. It was merely filled with water, a result of Mistress Hudson's and Molly's meddling due to his prior disappearance, despite the time that had passed since. He supposed they found it justifiable with his previous behaviors, afraid that he would overindulge or might mix ergot into his alcohol for an enhanced effect. He had no such desire, but the argument was never worth making, in the end. They thought they were helping; he simply didn't care.

"Your highness." Sherlock glanced up lazily at the woman before him. She curtsied, her head bowed low to reveal her dark hair, twisted sleekly out of her face. As she raised herself up, he could see the sharp, beautiful features of her face. "Lady Irene of Prydain," she continued with a coy smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow by way of response. His eyes raked over her, in a quick attempt to read her.

"Performing your customary magic, are you, my lord?" she questioned him, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers, brow furrowing slightly. She was still smirking playfully at him.

He scoffed. "Magic," he muttered disdainfully. "As though such a ridiculous thing even exists. No, I'm merely observing, my lady."

Irene inclined her head slightly. "My apologies, sire, I by no means intended to insult your intelligence," she said. "Which, of course, is spoken of even as far as where I am from."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "Don't waste your time with flattery," he said. "Your own reputation precedes you as well, and I can assure you that your time would be better spent elsewhere."

"You misunderstand my intentions, sire," she responded smoothly. She looked at him with slight pause. She reached a hand upwards, but Sherlock jerked away. "Sorry," she quickly said. "I was merely curious…"

Sherlock put a hand through his dark curls and the small stripe of white hair there; he knew that it was what the lady was referring to, though he'd grown so accustomed to people ignoring it or being too afraid to question it. His expression toward her was stony, though he was mildly impressed by her boldness.

"I've had it since I was a child," he explained, and Irene tilted her head as she glanced at it, though his words had a definite tone of finality so she didn't speak again. After a moment, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Was there something of importance that you wished of me, my lady?" he asked, though the words did not have an air of politeness about them.

Irene straightened slightly, recovering quickly and resuming the matter at hand. "I was merely intrigued as to whether or not your mind is in fact as impressive as they say, sire." Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically. "But I'm not interested in what you've to say about me."

"No?"

"No," she replied. "That would be rather dull, wouldn't it? To be told things that I already know?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously before setting his goblet down on a table. He settled his arms at his sides and looked down at the Lady Irene. "Who, then?" he asked.

Her grin broadened. She stepped closer to him, crossing the line into a more personal area, but Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead she angled herself so that her shoulder was pressed against his arm. "The man speaking to your brother," she

suggested.

His eyes scanned the crowd until they rested on his brother and the older man speaking to him. He showed no emotion as he glanced at Mycroft for perhaps a moment too long (taking in the details, as always—he was the one who taught him to do this in the first place, and they used to make a game out of it, but that was fifteen years ago). Instead he focused his attention on the man speaking to the king.

"Widower," he commented. "The woman accompanying him is young, definitely too young to have mothered his son. He is likely holding the position of duke, judging by the attention paid to his presentation, and the quality of his boots. He is interested in business and trade with the kingdom, probably an effort that was repeatedly made but never completed before. Very eager to please, and very precise with every movement and the way that he's speaking. It almost seems rehearsed, and the proximity he holds to my brother suggests that he was familiar with his predecessor, our father."

"You said he has a son?" Irene asked.

Sherlock waved over to a man on the other side of the room. "The center pin that he is wearing bears the same insignia."

Irene glanced at Sherlock for a moment, her smile proving how impressed she actually was. "And what of the woman he's speaking to?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the blond woman chatting to the duke's son. "Dull," he sighed. "Fairly ordinary, showing interest in him because of his hereditary title."

"What about her, then?" she asked, waving a gloved hand at a brunette girl.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "That's Molly, a healer who works within the castle," he explained. "Far too easy as I already know her." He paused. "On the other hand, the man she's dancing with is decidedly not interested in her."

"How do you figure?" Irene asked. "He looks pleased enough," she reasoned.

"The way he stands with her," Sherlock explained, gesturing at them with an open hand. "Too distant to merely be polite and respectful."

"Unlike how we are standing?" she quipped, looking up at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and focused on the pair. "Though he's interested in her, it's more likely it's for conversational purposes only, or perhaps out of sense of duty. Though—no, his posture doesn't quite read as chivalrous as a man who would ask her to dance merely because she was standing by herself."

"Maybe he knows her, then," Irene suggested.

"Possible, though more than likely not," Sherlock continued. "There is no familiarity in the way that Molly is conducting herself. Furthermore, she's flushed and perhaps a bit more flustered than usual; the only other person she reacts that way to is..."

Irene chuckled as Sherlock's sentence dropped off. "You have an admirer, then, your highness," she said.

He ignored the comment from Irene once more. "Now, watch the way that he excuses himself from her," he said, gesturing to the dark-haired man who bowed a little too quickly before turning from Molly. Nearly immediately he bumped into another nobleman and there was a quick exchange of apologies.

"Too eager to make his escape," she said, and Sherlock hummed in response. He narrowed his eyes slightly, following the man who had just abandoned Molly. "Now, what do you think of the Earl of Corona?"

Instantly Sherlock's focus turned to the man Irene was speaking of. "Lord Edward is not particularly fascinating," he sighed. "Though, he has recently turned to less-than-honorable forms of trade with some eastern empires, and he's romantically involved with the Lady Amanda, though that's still a secret."

"Really?" Irene inquired. "Wait, let me think..." She was silent for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips before gesturing back to the man. "The pin in her hair," she said after some time. "It's of jade, similar to that of the broach he's wearing. Am I correct?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "It's an adequate observation," he allowed, "though it's just one of many that create the whole image."

She sighed, though it was with amusement. "I hope you don't object to my saying that your intelligence is incredibly attractive, my lord." She chuckled. "I feel as though the time I spent earlier with Lord Sebastian was a complete waste, comparatively."

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, his eyes roamed over the attendants, until they at last fell on the figure of the aforementioned Baron of the Southern Isles. He watched as the man wavered slightly, grabbing onto the table near them before picking up a goblet. His eyes narrowed.

"I suspect he's had a bit too much wine by now," Irene said cheekily, but Sherlock took a tentative step closer to the man, without the intent of being noticed. His mind raced with the clues, quickly attempting to put them together as the man walked past them and up to Lady Anthea. He handed her the goblet and she gracefully accepted and thanked him.

"Or something more nefarious," he muttered. Instantly he was crossing the room as Anthea lifted the chalice. "Stop!" he cried, and it brought the attention to the prince, now quickly plucking the wine from Lady Anthea's hands, glaring at the Baron. A few nobles near them were turning, looking curiously at the cause of the prince's shout.

Instantly Irene was at his side. "Your highness?" she questioned.

"What is it, sire?" Lady Anthea asked in turn, looking at Sherlock with great uncertainty.

"You can't take this," he told her firmly, and as he spoke, even more guests were trying to see what was causing a disturbance in the middle of the celebration.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" The man's heart stopped at the voice those words belonged to. He didn't turn the slightest amount to watch his brother approaching. He could very well sense it, but he couldn't bring himself to look, to see the expression on Mycroft's face; already his words rang with disapproval and irritation, so horribly patronizing.

"It's been poisoned," Sherlock said in a low voice and the lady looked at him with a gasp as the nobleman laughed dryly.

"This is preposterous," he commented. He turned to Mycroft. "Your majesty, your brother is out of line with such an accusation!"

Mycroft's eyes were still locked purposefully on Sherlock's face, though his younger brother still avoided a glance back in his direction. "You'd better explain yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft growled with a sharp inhalation through the nose, as though to calm himself. "Lord Sebastian is a respectable man and a crucial ally of ours!"

"Such a respectable man wouldn't put henbane to use against a lady of our court," Sherlock spat, clutching the goblet in both of his hands, knuckles turning white from his angry grip.

"Henbane?" Irene inquired, and Sherlock's gaze broke from Sebastian's for just a moment so he could glance at her; he knew she was waiting for an explanation of his conclusion, much like his brother, and much like many around them were, now. The music, he vaguely registered, was still playing, and he could still hear chatter and laughter throughout the room, though the immediate vicinity surrounding them was hushed, watching quietly.

"Henbane is known to commonly grow by the sea," he said quickly. "The baron's exposed skin is of a darker complexion, but near his collar and cuff you can see the paler tone it usually takes. Similarly, the state of his boots denotes sand and salty air have weathered them. There's slight discoloration on his fingers, commonly caused by the berries of henbane, generally from someone who is not accustomed to using it and how to avoid such stains. The putrid smell also suggests the usage of the herb; a smell much like rotting. Prolonged exposure to the odor can commonly lead to symptoms such as dizziness, just as the Baron is exhibiting." He drew in a breath. "As for the symptoms for actual ingestion? That is a different and rather morbid matter."

There was silence in the small group of nobles. "This is ridiculous," Sebastian hissed at him. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes narrowed slits. "As though I would ever step foot near such a thing. No one with any sense would!"

"As though sense has anything to do with the matter," Sherlock retorted. "And you're hardly an expert on sense, anyway."

"Your highness," Irene said suddenly, and the tone was so deceivingly innocent. "How is it that you're so familiar with henbane and its properties?"

Sherlock rounded on her. "And what is your suggestion, my lady?" he asked her challengingly. He ignored the fact that the hand no longer gripping the goblet was now shaking slightly. He flexed his fingers before curling them back into his palm, doing his best to will the sensation away.

She shook her head. "I only think that henbane is an herb that many have not had much experience with, and you seem terribly informed." She paused, the attempt at virtuousness so sickeningly preposterous, Sherlock wanted to hate her for even attempting the act. "Especially with the powers when ingested. You speak with an air of personal experience."

The silence pressed heavily on Sherlock with Irene's implications. Of course she could figure it out; she was one of the cleverest in the lot, and she'd certainly been observing him since their meeting. Perhaps she'd even managed to dig deep enough to discover the darker secrets revolving around the royal family, despite Mycroft's efforts to bury them, prior to the festivities; he'd heard brief references to her reputation, and he was quickly learning that it was founded in truth.

"I believe that you have stepped out of line with what it is you are intending to say, my lady," Mycroft said coldly, his tone dangerous.

"My sincerest apologies," she said quickly, but it fell flat as Sherlock could hear the definite falseness in the words.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Stupid, he berated himself. But already Irene had done her damage.

"Sherlock, did you actually see the baron, or anyone for that matter, poison the wine?" Mycroft pressed on, his tone still incredibly frigid. Sherlock turned to him, but was temporarily reassured as he realized that his brother was not condemning him, but rather giving him a chance—hoping against all hope that Sherlock might be able to redeem himself.

His eyes fluttered shut and he lifted a hand near his face, as though it would help him focus, fingers twitching slightly as though he was physically sifting through his mind. Quickly Sherlock replayed every detail of the night where he had observed Sebastian, even peripherally. There was something that didn't sit right. It was one quick moment, just a split second. It was something he hardly noticed. Something...

His eyes snapped open and he turned to the nobleman. "Turn out your pockets," he ordered him.

Sebastian rounded on him once more. "Excuse me?"

Mycroft sighed. "My lord, if you wouldn't mind indulging my brother," he pleaded. "At the very least, it could clear things up and this ordeal can be properly handled."

Sebastian glared at the older brother before yanking at one of his coat pockets, proving that it was empty. Then, he out-turned the other, and a strange root was left in his hand. He stared down at it. Immediately his face reddened. "I don't even know—"

"Salsify," Sherlock muttered, staring at it.

"Excuse me?" Sebastian asked.

"Salsify," Sherlock repeated irritably. "It was placed there. It—" He shook his head and his eyes flitted over the crowd, but his search left him empty-handed. Again he turned back to Sebastian. "The man that bumped into you earlier, did you know him?"

"I don't even know what you're talking—"

Sherlock growled in frustration and turned to find the lady he needed standing with a crowd of other guests, looking at Sherlock with uncertainty. "Molly," he said quickly. "That man—the one you danced with earlier. Where did he go?"

Molly looked startled; Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because of the attention that he brought to her, or the fact that he'd noticed she'd had some brief company during the evening. "I'm not sure, my lord," she confessed.

"When did you last see him?" he demanded.

"Not that long ago," she responded, glancing around before returning her gaze to Sherlock's. "Sire—"

"Think carefully, my lady," he told her softly, and he took a step forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned in closely. "What did you say to him that might have been of some importance?"

She shook her head, pulling her head back slightly, obviously flustered by his proximity. "We spoke of... well, you mostly," she admitted in a half-whisper and she blushed deeply. "Of the coronation. Of..." Her face fell and her eyes looked into Sherlock's sadly, realizing that she may have in fact mentioned something of consequence. "Of the bracelet," she breathed.

Sherlock pulled away from her, face determinedly blank. He whipped back around to face his brother, who was looking at him expectantly. "I need to find Mistress Hudson," was all that he said by way of explanation, and then he was pushing through the crowd, quick but his emotions still decidedly controlled.

As he emerged out into the corridor, he paused for a moment, glancing around for a sign, some sort of clue as to which way to head next.

"Your highness!"

"I don't have time for you," he snapped back at the woman who had followed him. However, Irene seemed unperturbed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was absorbing the scene, but the walls and floors were cold stone and unyielding wood, bearing no evidence of what he needed. He placed his hands to his forehead, slamming his eyes shut, thinking of anything that might possibly clue him in—

But perhaps the lack of anything was a clue in itself. He narrowed his eyes and set off down the right side of the corridor, Irene's footsteps falling behind his. They stepped over two guards who were knocked unconscious, their bodies left on the floor in an unceremonious heap. Mycroft could handle that though, Sherlock reasoned, because he had a more pressing matter.

He reached the parlor that he had commonly found his nursemaid in since he'd been little, seeking her out for whatever task he had in mind and (begrudgingly) needed assistance with. It was an image of her he'd stored away, when he'd find her sitting in the bright afternoon sun, perched in a chair and sipping tea as a short respite before continuing with her duties as Sherlock's caretaker. His only hope rested in the idea that this was her safe-haven, just as Sherlock's was the library, and if she had disappeared out of her own accord, this is where she would have headed.

He pressed the door open with a definite calmness, immediately calculating how he would be able to turn whatever situation he was met with on the other side. However, the chamber seemed empty at first glance. Then, he caught sight of his nursemaid, sitting awkwardly on the floor.

Upon seeing that there was no immediate danger, he kept his composure as he walked slowly to the woman, then crouched before her. It didn't escape his notice that Irene did not follow him inside. He took in the angry red marks on his nursemaid's wrists, her pale skin quickly bruising, the bracelet distinctly missing. There was a rip in the sleeve of her dress and her shoulders quivered slightly, though she seemed otherwise in tact.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she sighed quickly. He did not respond, only grasping her gently at the elbow to help her stand, then led her to a plush chair. "I'm fine, sire," she said dismissively, waving her hand at him, though he could feel the small tremors of her body as she sat. She was like that; she always put on a brave face for him. That's just who she was. "Your mother's bracelet was taken, though, I'm afraid. I'm so very sorry," she repeated.

He heard hurried footsteps and he glanced up to see not Irene, but Molly, the other woman still standing back in the doorway.

"Can I help, your highness?" Molly offered quietly.

Sherlock got to his feet and took two steps back, allowing Molly to glance over Mistress Hudson, gently examining her wrists. "Who did this to you?" he asked instead, his tone firm and demanding.

"I didn't exactly see them," the older woman told him, shaking her head.

"Them?" Sherlock pressed on, furrowing his brow.

"There were two of them—"

"Molly," Sherlock broke in. "Once you've seen to Mistress Hudson, inform the guards that they are seeking out three men—most likely the two who attacked Mistress Hudson will already be dead. The third will be attempting an escape from the citadel."

"Dead?" Molly asked, eyes wide as she looked up at the man.

He nodded sharply. "They weren't important, so he would have disposed of them by now—he has made it clear through this attack that he is not the kind to perform such acts himself, so that is why there must be a third man involved, also employed by him for this specific purpose."

"Who is this man?" Molly asked him warily, but he turned and stalked out of the room, grabbing onto Irene's wrist and yanking her to the side once they were in the hallway.

"You will explain, my lady," he told her coolly.

"Your highness—"

"I am tired of games," he snapped. "If you value your life, you will tell me who you're working for."

"You cannot threaten me!" she said, pulling at her wrist, but the grip that Sherlock kept on her was strong.

"I'm not making threats," he responded acidly. "I am merely telling you what will happen if you don't cooperate." She narrowed her eyes and tried to tug at his hold once more, but there was no give. "It's that man, isn't it? The one who was dancing with Molly, who found out about the bracelet. But he's clearly not the type who's willing to do the work for himself…" He tilted his head. "So what? Was that all of his plan?" he demanded. "Tell me!"

"I don't know!" she responded venomously. "I was only aware of my part."

He leaned forward. "So what was your part in this? A distraction for the prince?" he queried. Her eyes shifted downward, turning away from Sherlock. "You know more. Something else. What is it?" However, Irene still would not look at him. He pulled her closer, unceremoniously. "You heard what I said about the men who attacked Mistress Hudson—in all likelihood they are dead, and you know it to be true as well. You've played your part. What makes you think that he won't be so quick to dispose of you, as well?"

She looked up at him, dark eyes showing the truth of her vulnerability and betraying her apprehension.

"Tell me," he repeated.

"He has his eyes on more than just that jewel, sire," she told him at last.

He looked at her, eyes flitting over her features as though he might be able to find more of an explanation in them. "Other jewels?" he asked, then his eyes widened in comprehension and he straightened himself. "The crown."

Irene's eyes met his, though she did not speak an affirmative. Still, it was enough. He dropped her wrist and turned.

"Your highness," she said desperately. He paused and turned to face her again. "What of me?"

"What of you, my lady?" he asked, his tone cold and emotionless.

"He'll kill me, as you said," she told him, and she glanced down at her gloved hands. "When he finds out, and I am certain that he will. He is powerful. Surely… surely you…"

"I what, my lady?" he responded, raising an eyebrow. "You think that I should be any different, knowing of your own participation in the events of tonight?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I had not known the extent—" She shook her head and took a step forward, though Sherlock took a step back in turn. She bit her lip. "You must have a heart, sire; you must help me. Please."

"You're wrong on both accounts, my lady," he assured her. "I will not help, and I definitely don't have a heart."

She swallowed tightly. "Please…" she repeated, and her voice sounded weak.

"Run," he responded.

She stared at him for a moment, blinking rapidly at him before finally realizing the full extent of his words; he was giving her a chance to escape. She was just a foolish participant, unaware of the damages that might result. She nodded and looked away. Sherlock turned away once more and as he made his way to the throne room where the crown jewels had been returned and secured after the ceremony, he could hear the clicking of Irene's heels, fading as she made her escape in the opposite direction.

Sherlock's pace was quick. He only paused briefly at the outside of the throne room, collecting a halberd from one of the guards on the floor—both of whom were definitely dead; with a fleeting glance, Sherlock could recognize the distinct wound that signified a misericorde, clean and precise, clearly dealt by the assassin employed. He gripped the halberd in both hands as he crept closer to the door, feeling slightly awkward with the weapon, as it was not one with which he was familiar. However, he didn't expect there to be enough time to retrieve his sword; he was operating on a schedule of vague, imprecise estimates. And if the man with the dagger was not yet making his escape but waiting with the mastermind, he'd prefer a weapon with a slightly longer range. It just might give him the advantage.

Sherlock gently pressed the door to the chamber open, and was slightly shocked to see the man he expected, sitting in his brother's throne, king's crown atop his own head. He was vaguely relieved to see that he was in fact alone in the chamber, as though he was personally awaiting the prince.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, your highness," the man said to him, his eyes dark and shining, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. It all felt unnerving.

Sherlock stared at him expressionlessly. He kept himself calm, detached. "I wish I could say the same to you…"

"Sir James Moriarty," he responded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "A knight?" he queried, glancing over the man. He did not bear most of the tells that the prince could recognize in those that reached knighthood; he quickly reassessed, considering the possibility of a hereditary title. "Or a baronet?"

"Of sorts," he said, lifting a shoulder slightly, then dropping it, giving Sherlock no further explanation. "Though that's far from my aspiration."

"You aspire to be a thief and a murderer?" Sherlock inquired. He slowly approached the other man until he was standing in the center of the room, the point on the halberd's head directed at Moriarty. He stared at him intently.

"Ooh," Moriarty grinned. "You're certainly an imp, aren't you? No, your grace, I'm a bit of both of those, yet not quite either. I have so many who are willing to do my work for me; it helps to keep me off of the battlegrounds." He huffed out a small laugh. "Honestly, I aspire to be much more than that, Sherlock."

The prince ignored the informality, though he bristled internally; it was disconcerting to hear his name from that man's lips, especially in his brother's throne, wearing his brother's crown. No, this situation was so inherently wrong.

"And I'm sure that you'll realize, too, that I am precisely where I need to be."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to press the man for more information—was that some attempt at a threat, promising to sit in that throne one day, after usurping Mycroft? Or had he laid some trap that Sherlock had walked into, unaware? What was his intention?

"Don't move!" The shout came from behind Sherlock, and he shifted his body to see over his shoulder as half a dozen guards ran into the room, armed with halberds and short-swords. The prince could peripherally see as Moriarty discarded the crown and raised his hands in surrender, three of the guards rushing forward to detain him; a fourth began searching him, no doubt for the dagger that killed the others.

"He has no weapons," he assured the guards shortly, and a smile curled on Moriarty's lips.

"He's correct," he told them, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sherlock.

The guard searching Moriarty glanced at another, who nodded. He rose to his feet and they wordlessly took him from the chamber just as Mycroft entered.

He glanced at the two remaining guards with a significant look. "A moment of privacy with my brother, please," he told them, and they stepped back out of the room, pulling the doors behind them as they did.

Mycroft turned back and frowned at Sherlock. "You went after him yourself?" he hissed disapprovingly.

"It was of importance," he responded simply, as though it was obvious.

"And you couldn't spare a moment to inform someone?" Mycroft pressed on. "Call on a guard? Any of our knights? Someone properly trained to handle such a situation?"

"I'm no longer a child, despite the fact that you still think of me as such. I have, in fact, become an adult." Sherlock rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. "He wasn't a threat."

"He killed two of our men!" Mycroft spat. "He murdered two of his own!"

"It was not him; he plays a game of manipulation and keeps himself as removed as he can while he lays out his plans for others to follow. He had no intention of harming me," Sherlock told him dismissively. He turned to walk away from his brother, to abandon this pointless conversation.

"You don't know that, Sherlock!" Mycroft grabbed the prince's wrist, and Sherlock snatched his arm away; even through his older brother's gloves, Sherlock could feel the cold of his hand, burning icily against his skin.

"It's fine!" Sherlock responded venomously, and Mycroft snapped his mouth shut, lifting his chin slightly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, the anger which had previously been a small fire now a raging blaze, burning him outwards to his skin. "You don't have to pretend that you care at all about what fate I would have met. You've taken fifteen years to prove that you don't care about anything, Mycroft. And I'm sure that after Lady Irene's accusations in the company earlier, that you care least about me." He paused, sucking in a breath; he allowed a half-second for his brother to object, but he did not so he continued on, more calmly. "He took Mother's bracelet. I would be grateful if you could retrieve it from him."

"And Lord Sebastian? The salsify?" He paused, looking at his brother significantly. "Lady Irene?"

"All part of his plot," Sherlock assured him. "He planted the salsify on the baron. It has a scent similar to that of henbane—I should have been able to detect the difference, really. The other symptoms… it was foolish of me to conclude such a thing, but that was his intent. He wanted for me to wrongly accuse the baron, and then have Lady Irene discredit me by referencing my past troubles."

"You wished to impress her by exposing a murder attempt."

He swallowed. "I was foolish," Sherlock said. "I can assure you it won't happen twice."

"It should never have happened in the first place!" Mycroft retorted.

"And I can not change that," Sherlock bit out. "Instead, focus on the man you're holding prisoner. There is little that you can do to properly keep him in a cell."

"I'm aware—"

"Then instead of wasting your time on your brother, chiding his mistakes, perhaps you should attempt an actual plan to charge Moriarty with his crimes," Sherlock spat. He turned again, walking briskly away from the king, rubbing absently at the place where Mycroft had touched him; the touch was so cold and strange, but his anger still felt so hot inside of him, that he tried to write off every illogical implication.

He headed immediately toward Mistress Hudson's chambers, just down the corridor from his own. He knocked, and when she called for him to enter, he did.

She smiled gently at him from her place, seated at the edge of her bed. "Has everything been sorted?" she inquired.

"It's being seen to," he assured her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. She instantly reached up to cover it in her own.

"Were you able to recover your mother's bracelet?" she asked, a slight pause in her voice.

"I'm sure they will be able to," he said. "I had more important matters."

Mistress Hudson let out a small laugh, and she shook her head. "I'm not that important, you silly boy."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock objected. "Without you, the kingdom would fall."

Again the nursemaid chuckled. She patted his hand. "Quite a day," she told him.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Get to sleep," he ordered her. "We can handle all other matters in the morning."

* * *

The bright light of the morning did nothing to illuminate the cells beneath the castle, nor to warm them. The torches on the walls provided the only light for Mycroft as he walked past the guards and to the cell at the end of the corridor. He glowered at the man sitting cross-legged in the center of the straw-covered floor; in turn, Moriarty smiled back up at him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, your majesty?" he asked, false reverence in his voice.

"I've come for information," Mycroft told him coldly. Moriarty cocked his head to the side, as though confused. "You managed to not only plan, but to carry out, a rather well-organized and thought-out scheme," he continued. "The people you exploited, others you had killed… the information you obtained." He lifted his chin and looked down at Moriarty through narrowed eyes. "You will explain how you came into all of this."

"Ooh," Moriarty responded, as though suddenly understanding. "That is quite a lot you're asking for," he continued, eyes wide and attempting innocence. "I hope you have something to offer in return."

"I do not bargain with criminals," Mycroft spat.

Moriarty frowned. "I don't suppose that I can help you, then, sire," he told him.

"Your life would not be enough?" Mycroft quirked a brow. "Failure to cooperate may be enough of a reason to be hanged."

"I am prepared to be put to death without admitting anything," he responded.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Don't think I won't resort to means of torture to find out what I need," the king said icily. "Just as you have those willing to carry out such deeds for you, I do as king, as well. I can call on them, if necessary."

"Oh, but this would be so much simpler," Moriarty told him with a smile. He easily shifted to his feet and walked to the bars, gripping them tightly, pressing against them with his entire weight and letting the clanging sound echo through the chamber. Mycroft, however, did not flinch or step back. He simply continued to glare at the man with contempt. "Are you not even curious what it is I would ask for, your majesty?"

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he allowed after several moments of silence. "Indulge me. What would you ask for in return for your cooperation?"

Moriarty grinned a little manically as he pressed his face against the bars, closer to the king. "Tell me about your brother, the prince."


	2. Stronger than a Hundred Men

**Beware the Frozen Heart  
**

_Beautiful! __Powerful! __Dangerous! __Cold!_  
_Ice has a magic, can't be controlled._  
_Stronger than one, stronger than ten,_  
_Stronger than a hundred men! _

* * *

**Notes: **Story and chapter titles from "Frozen Heart" from the Frozen soundtrack. There are many references to various Disney kingdoms, minor Sherlock characters, Medieval weapons and poisons/substances/"drugs".

My apologies for being so slow. I've started a 90-hour child care course and it's been very time-consuming, especially combined with two jobs. Hoping that I'll be able to start managing my time better, now that I'm in the swing of things.

Still no John yet! Sorry! But here's more Moriarty for you.

* * *

"Excuse me, your majesty."

Mycroft glanced up from the table at which he was working, seeing the young girl he'd hired to aid his brother some time ago hesitantly entering his private chamber.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow before looking back down at his work. He remained seated, though he shuffled the papers and scrolls he was examining into a neat pile. His eyes met hers once again. "What is the problem?"

"It's your brother, sire," Molly said, nervously fidgeting.

Mycroft considered her curiously. "Is all well?"

"Well, strictly speaking, yes," she told him. She bit her lip. "He'll be furious if he knows that I've told you…"

"Ah." Mycroft looked down at the papers in his hands and nodded once before looking back to the woman. "Has he run off again?" he asked bitterly, more than a hint of agitation in his voice. "I can handle that immediately."

Molly shook her head. "It isn't that, sire," she responded, and she took a step closer to the desk. "He's gone down to the cells."

Mycroft furrowed his brow at this, pushing himself from the table. "What business does he have down there?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and frowning. No, this definitely did not sound like a good idea. Then, he lifted his chin and closed his eyes. "He's gone to speak to Moriarty." He sighed; if he was honest, he'd half-expected this would have happened sooner. "Thank you for telling me, my lady," he said flatly, not sparing her another glance. "I will take care of this."

Mycroft strode out of the room, Molly following quickly in his wake. He knew that Moriarty would tempt his brother, just by his presence in the castle walls. His brother was always one for a mystery, a challenge. By this point, Sherlock would be aware that Mycroft had not yet succeeded in discovering more information than the bare minimum.

What Mycroft had offered him in return had been inconsequential, but it still made him uneasy. Moriarty was a master of manipulation; that much was clear. Mycroft felt his stomach twist slightly with guilt that he'd offered him anything at all, without the consent of his brother. But it had been a necessary action. Mycroft was well aware of Moriarty's connections; he was frankly a little surprised that there had been no attempts from an outside force to break the criminal out. He wanted to think that it was the ability of his own system of knights and guards that was preventing this, but he knew better. At the very least, he would have received word of the effort, even if they had been stopped in the process. And he remained very aware that fear and intimidation of the monarch would not keep such men at bay; no, it would be more likely for their fear of Moriarty to drive them to such an effort in the first place. It didn't sit well, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. They had Moriarty, the primary threat, detained. If only he could gain a small bit of information, they might be able to take down some of the man's following.

Yet it still seemed that for every move and option Mycroft had pre-planned, several steps advanced beyond anyone else, Moriarty was still a step ahead with a counterattack ready. His mind instantly began assessing the situation and preparing his next move in this ongoing battle. Moriarty clearly had an unnerving fascination with the prince; was this what he had wanted all along? To stay imprisoned so that he could somehow get to Sherlock? But what could he possibly _do_?

At last, he found his brother in front of the cell door, standing stoically. The younger, taller man turned as he heard the footsteps approaching.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice a low warning. "I don't think it wise for you to be here."

Sherlock quirked a brow as Mycroft stepped forward. Sherlock's hands were folded neatly behind his back. "No?" he queried coolly. "Well, I don't suppose that you'd actually be willing to explain to me your reasoning for this aversion to the idea, would you?" He paused for a second, and his elder brother glared, hand gripping tightly onto a wooden chair, one settled for guards to sit in as they kept watch. Mycroft clenched his fingers, his knuckles white from the pressure, and Sherlock's expression remained passive. "No, I thought not. Should it not be a part of my duty?"

"And when have you cared for such nonsense?" Mycroft snapped. "Little brother, you never cared for royal obligations. So pray tell, why would you begin now?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, stepping away from the cell so that he was nearly toe-to-toe with his brother. "And why are you so willing to let him slip away?" he retorted, his voice a quiet hiss. "You've held him for weeks and what do you have to prove that time worthwhile?"

Mycroft lifted his chin. "What is it that you wish to prove, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Other than how little you actually know of me and my skills, brother?" Sherlock responded.

"There are more proper ways to prove yourself," Mycroft told him firmly.

Sherlock laughed dryly at this. "I do not care about your opinion of me," he told him. "I do not need to prove myself to you. I gave up on your approval fifteen years ago, so don't _mock _and _appall me_ with your childish suggestions." He shook his head. "I wish to speak with him. To observe. I could have gathered much more about him the night he was captured, had I not been interrupted."

"Ah," Mycroft said with a sober, condescending smile. "Then this _is_ just another mystery for you to solve. Another _game_. If only you'd realize the difference from when we were children—that there are lives that could be effected, Sherlock."

"It's still a game," Sherlock responded evenly. "The actual difference is the importance of winning."

"Oh, how things have changed," Moriarty sighed. Sherlock turned back to the cell, slowly approaching as he listened to the prisoner. "To think that the king and his brother were once so close—it saddens my heart a great deal, I can assure you." He looked up at the prince as he stalked toward him. "I suppose that comes with the pain of growing up, though, your highness."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You'd best keep your assumptions about the past to yourself," he told him evenly.

"Oh, but I'm not making assumptions, sire," Moriarty said in that voice that screamed of false apologies and fake respect. "I have been informed by a very reliable source."

There was a brief pause. "Information disclosed was inconsequential," Mycroft said flatly.

"You told him about me," Sherlock hissed, rounding on his brother. "Why? To try and coerce him to speak?"

Mycroft, however, continued to stare at the prisoner. "As I said, what I divulged was unimportant." He paused for just a moment. "I have my kingdom's best interests in mind," Mycroft said, looking from Moriarty to Sherlock, then back again. "I will not hesitate to take whatever action is necessary."

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly. "Clearly," he said. "Then why not simply put an end to this now? Would that not benefit your precious kingdom?"

Mycroft made a grim expression at him. "You have grown cold, brother."

"I learned from the best," Sherlock responded easily, and Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment before looking down at Moriarty once more.

"You wouldn't kill me, either, your highness," Moriarty said with a manic smile.

"You sound certain of yourself," Sherlock told him.

Moriarty lifted a shoulder slightly, and tilted his head. "I suppose that I am, sire."

Sherlock's brow furrowed again, eyes narrowing as they flickered over Moriarty, attempting to read every detail that was written over his face and body.

"For god's sake, brother, he's playing you," Mycroft snapped.

"As he did to you?" Sherlock retorted, head whipping back to his brother's direction.

Mycroft's jaw clenched. "He did no such thing."

Sherlock laughed darkly at this. "No?" he queried. "We already know from the coronation that he can put any information he's given to a sinister use. Molly herself was used as a pawn." He gestured at the woman who was standing quietly, pulled away slightly from the others, her presence nearly forgotten. "Now he's undoubtedly outwitted you as well, and you've completely allowed it." He paused. "But no, you don't see it as such, do you? You still believe yourself to have the upper hand." He scoffed. "You are such a _fool_. You believe yourself to know every answer and solution—you think that you yourself are a deity, that your words and decisions are infallible. King Mycroft can do _no_ wrong."

"Hold your tongue," Mycroft growled.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "It doesn't matter what I have to say, anyway. Isn't that the point of this? '_The heir and the spare_', after all. The first becomes king, the second ultimately ceases to exist. That's why it was so easy to abandon any concerns about giving details of my life; I don't matter. So what if I speak out of turn, in your eyes? It's '_inconsequential'_, brother, as you said. Or if you don't like it, I suppose you could lock me away. Banish me. I'm personally surprised that you didn't before. After all, I'm such a bother, a blemish in the royal lineage, am I not? Nothing like _Mycroft_—proud, perfect _Mycroft_, with his capricious, pernicious brother—"

"I said _hold your tongue_!" Mycroft snapped, slamming his hands on the table against the wall. And the moment he touched the wood, ice rippled out from where his hands were planted, crackling as the table froze over.

Molly gasped audibly, drawing her hands up to her chest. Sherlock watched the frost swiftly envelop the table before Mycroft snatched his hands back. Then, his older brother clenched his jaw and folded his hands at his sides.

Sherlock stared wordlessly at the scene, attempting to apply reason, but nothing of it made sense.

"_Oh_, your _majesty_." The sing-song voice of Moriarty broke the heavy silence that had fallen. "You've been hiding _magic_?" He wore a manic smile, looking positively gleeful at the display.

Sherlock, however, did not say a word. He drew himself up and pushed past his brother, ascending the stairs. Once his footsteps disappeared, there was again an uneasy quiet, broken only by the tiny _drip drip_ of the ice already melting away.

"I… I'll go see to him, sire," Molly whispered at last, gaze finally breaking away from the frosted-over table to the king. She looked to him with uncertainty, but he did not turn to her, continuing to stare ahead.

"Very well," Mycroft said after a brief moment, and Molly quickly curtsied before scurrying off.

The moment that she was gone, Mycroft sank into the chair beside the table, eyes squeezed shut and breathing deeply through his nose, folding his hands in front of his mouth so that the tips of his fingers brushed against his nose. After a few moments he opened his eyes once more to see Moriarty grinning dubiously at him.

"Oh, your majesty," he repeated. "I am… _impressed_ at your talents." He raised an eyebrow when Mycroft merely glared. "You doubt my honesty, sire?" he questioned. He shook his head. "No, no, I am quite fascinated by magic. It's something that defies logic, isn't it? Probably the reason that your brother reacted so negatively, I must admit. But _I_ actually envy those like you who possess such unrivaled power." He paused dramatically. "However, you must understand that there are _many_ who do not hold the same views that I do."

Mycroft folded his hands into his lap, lifting his chin to look down at Moriarty with unbridled distaste. "What is it that you want?" he demanded.

"Right to the point, sire, I admire that," Moriarty said. "There's two things, actually," he admitted. "Then, you can be assured of my silence."

Mycroft scoffed. "And you are convinced that the people will readily believe you?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"They may," Moriarty said. "Or they may not. But at the very least, I will be able to completely discredit you _and_ your brother. The moment that there is even a _seed_ of doubt planted into the minds of men, it refuses to be choked down. Instead, it grows like an invasive weed until the truth is indistinguishable."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, frowning at the prisoner. "And what would your conditions be this time?"

The prisoner smiled. "First, my freedom," he said. "Second, your expulsion."

"You wish for me to relinquish the crown?" he questioned, only mildly perplexed at the dubious suggestion. "To whom?"

"Why, to the second in line for the throne, of course," Moriarty explained easily, dark eyes shining dangerously. "There is no need for dramatics. I don't have anyone waiting for the moment you leave to take over. No, no… The prince will be the one to become king."

"If you have no wish to take it for yourself, then why would it benefit you to have my brother in power?"

"Oh, you're considering things all wrong," Moriarty sighed. "I have my eyes on the crown, of course. I won't pretend that isn't my ultimate plan. But I have such bigger plans for your beloved brother. Far more than you could possibly understand, sire."

"And why should I abandon my brother when you've made it clear that you intend him harm?" Mycroft asked in turn. He rose to his feet, approaching the bars.

"Oh, no," Moriarty said. "I can promise you that I have no intention of interrupting the prince's rule in any way. I am realistic—I want a proper kingdom when I take over. To usurp your brother so simply would not really help me, would it? There would be a matter of gaining trust and loyalty of the people over him, and I can't bring myself to waste time on such a trivial thing. No, I have no intention of intervening once your brother takes the throne. You can be assured of that."

Mycroft seemed to consider the criminal's words for a few moments. "And if I still refuse?"

Moriarty got to his feet and grasped onto the bars, staring intently at the king. "I will _destroy_ you, your brother, and your kingdom," he whispered venomously. "And I will ensure that you and your subjects suffer for every minute of it." He pulled back. "And we know how much your kingdom means to you. You were so willing to confide in me about your _own_ brother, just because you were convinced it might save them, in the end."

Mycroft looked coldly at the other man. That was his choice, then—to give the kingdom to his brother, or to let it be utterly destroyed. Once he might have jested that they were one in the same; now, however, he could see the dire consequences of the latter outweighing the former. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's wish—despite detesting the title of being the 'spare', he was content with the knowledge that he'd never be forced to sit on the throne. He wasn't properly prepared for it; his disposition was all wrong. But still, a reluctant king would be better than the alternative, wouldn't it?

Mycroft inhaled deeply through his nose, taking a step away from the cell, and the man who was grinning maliciously on the other side of the barred door. He looked back to the staircase that Sherlock had ascended some time before. Perhaps, at least, he could speak to him and offer him a small warning.

"Very well," the king said, his voice nearly inaudible.

* * *

Molly finally came upon Sherlock again after some searching. He was in the library, rifling through papers and books.

"Your highness?" she said sheepishly, announcing her presence and simultaneously showing her concern and confusion regarding the prince's behavior. However, he ignored her, glancing over the pages of one particularly battered-looking tome before slamming it shut; it emitted a puff of dust as he did. He pushed it aside and slid another book in front of him as a replacement. "Sire, what are you—"

"An explanation," he told her curtly. "There must be something that can reasonably and logically explain—explain what just occurred…" He let out a shout of frustration after snapping another book closed.

"Sire, I… I don't believe you're going to find what you're looking for," she said gently, and he whipped around to her, glaring. She withdrew slightly, wringing her hands together. "Well, that's the thing about magic, isn't it?" she offered, though she was fairly certain that it wasn't what the prince wanted to hear. "What qualifies it as such? It defies reason. There isn't a scientific or medical explanation. It's something that doesn't make sense."

Sherlock huffed out a sigh of indignation and dropped himself into a seat. He lifted his hands in front of his face, his fingertips pressed together as he furrowed his brow.

Molly knew that, to others, this behavior would signify dismissal. However, she prided herself in having learned a couple of Sherlock's habits and tendencies since she'd come into his employment. She hadn't been actually turned away; not yet. She licked his lips nervously, looking at the man. Other times she might have walked away and left him to his thoughts regardless. However, she was aware of how shocked she had been by Mycroft's powers; how could Sherlock feel, after knowing the man for his entire life?

"Are you all right, sire?" she asked him cautiously. His eyes flickered to her and he arched an eyebrow. "I only mean… well… you didn't know?"

Molly bit her lip as she felt herself being scrutinized by the gaze of the prince. After a moment, however, he sighed. "No," he said flatly. "I suppose I should have known," he then admitted. "Perhaps I did, but I was simply too eager to explain it away with things that make _proper_ sense."

"You honestly never believed in magic?" she asked, and she allowed herself to take a seat across from the prince. She tilted her head curiously; she knew that there were many who refused to acknowledge the presence of magic: those who were convinced only by what they could see or hear or touch. She herself had grown to doubt its existence as she grew older, but the tiny girl inside her still had held a _hope_ that something so fascinatingly beautiful could be real. Shouldn't Sherlock be the same? "Even as a child?" she pressed on.

"No," he responded once more, and from the tone she could tell that he wasn't going to explain any further. After several minutes of silence, Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat angrily, fists clenching at his side. "I should have _known_," he repeated, which immediately gave Molly more insight to his mental state; Sherlock refused to repeat himself on many occasions, when it was _requested_ of him. The fact that he was doing so now willingly, though most likely unconsciously, made her frown at the potential severity of the situation. "He locked himself away for fifteen years," he said tightly, gesturing with his hands as though trying to touch something in the air that wasn't there. "He didn't want me to know." He rounded on Molly. "Why?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, sire," she said. "Your brother adores you."

Sherlock scoffed at this, and he began to pace, to the bookshelves and back to where the healer was seated. "Mycroft doesn't feel anything akin to adoration or—or _love_ to me," he muttered, still gesticulating absently. "Or anyone, for that matter. He doesn't know how. He isn't capable. And that's something he readily passed on to me."

Molly licked her lips again, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap as she looked up at Sherlock. "I don't believe that, sire."

"It's fact," the prince responded shortly and dismissively. "I was six when he first informed me how useless it was to foster any emotion for anybody. For a short while, I thought him to be misled by bitterness and anger, but time only helped to verify his statement. And honestly, it is better to know the truth than to be such a fool."

"I'm sorry," Molly said softly and genuinely.

"It's hardly something that requires an _apology_," Sherlock said with a quick eye roll.

"But it does, sire," Molly said, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, dropping his hands and raising an eyebrow at the woman. She slowly stood up, frowning slightly, her eyes distinctly sad. "You may not think so, but it does. Because you're wrong—with all respect, of course, sire. Feeling something does not show weakness, but merely that you are human. And it is hardly something that you can simply extinguish like a flame. If anything, tonight is proof of that, whether or not you wish to see it that way." She hesitated for a moment, her voice and confidence faltering.

"You may go, Molly," he told her, though she noted that the tone wasn't furious as she feared it might be. However, she did notice with slight unease that his voice was completely emotionless.

She nodded once, curtsying and making her way to the door. Once there, she did pause, for a just a moment. "Your highness," she said softly. "If you ever do need anything, just tell me."

"Obviously—"

"No," she quickly cut in, her cheeks coloring. "I don't mean as someone employed to serve you, sire, but… as a friend." She swiftly exited the room, not wanting to hear the potential rejection, but instead to let the offer settle in the silence.

* * *

Mycroft was admittedly unsurprised when he found his brother in the study some time later. As children, this was Sherlock's instinctual sanctuary. Even before Sherlock's tutors had taught him to read, he'd been naturally attracted because of the knowledge of its purpose; the fact that a place existed that harbored the answers to his questions, a place of logic and reason and science. He never cared for the volumes without factual premises, after all, only gravitating to those that could teach him about the world outside of the castle walls.

Sherlock did not acknowledge the king's presence as he entered the library; instead, he continued to stare off, decidedly ignoring him, even when Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat.

"Brother," he said softly after a moment; that's when Sherlock snapped his head in the man's direction, eyes narrowed as they locked onto him. Mycroft, however, did not falter in the slightest. He was well aware that his brother was furious. Even aside from the current circumstances, he'd been told countless times of his brother's temper, that he usually managed to surpass other emotions like sadness, straight into anger. Mycroft could hardly blame him; he now reasoned a little sadly he had provided plenty of reason for Sherlock to feel that way, but he was also still young. He had not yet managed to take control of his ire, or to completely transform it into the cold indifference he often thought he emanated.

"What could you possibly want?" Sherlock asked coldly.

Mycroft took in a sharp breath through his nose; he was not going to bait his brother, and he would not allow his brother's antagonizing to get to him either. "We have an important matter to discuss," he continued.

Sherlock scoffed at this. "There are many things that should be discussed, _brother_, but clearly none of them are actually important," Sherlock muttered. "Otherwise, they would have been discussed long before now."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you want me to apologize, Sherlock?" he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

"I don't want anything from you," Sherlock said evenly.

"Then forget this childish feud for just a moment and let me speak," Mycroft pressed on, frowning at the younger man.

"_I'm_ being childish?" Sherlock asked incredulously, standing and approaching his brother. "You've no room to speak as such, Mycroft. You acted like a child when you chose to lock yourself away in your room for the better part of fifteen years instead of being honest about—_this_." He waved his hand, still unable to refer to the situation using words like "magic" and "powers" without feeling like a ridiculous fool.

"It was for the best," Mycroft told him. "You couldn't begin to understand."

"Because I was never given the opportunity," Sherlock countered. "All you did was assure me that sentiment is a _defect_, one found on the losing side."

"I've told you already that this isn't a game, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "You accuse me of not understanding, yet…"

"Because you don't understand, brother," Mycroft said exasperatedly. "You could not possibly comprehend the weight of the current situation."

"Then explain it to someone who still cares," Sherlock replied. "Because I stopped caring that first time you advised me to."

"Sherlock—!"

"No," he cut across. "I don't want any part of this. I don't want anything to do with you any longer. You've had so many chances, and you've wasted them, proving my insignificance time and time again." He clenched his jaw. "Instead of offering meaningless explanations, I'd rather prefer you just _leave me be_. Just grant me that, _brother_." He shoved past the older man, the door to the library slamming shut heavily behind him.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke at last the next morning after a restless night, the result of strange dreams and his mind unable to stop working, it was to a chill that had invaded his room and crept beneath his blankets and seeped deep within his bones. It took him a moment to recognize the sensation for what it was, other than a numb ache through his joints, or a product of the dreams involving his brother and the revelation he had made the evening before. He frowned as he climbed out of bed, blinking slowly and taking in the situation. It was the middle of summer—there was no reason for the castle to be _this incredibly cold_. He pulled the curtains back to reveal his window, and his brow furrowed at the sight.

_Snow_.

The entire courtyard was frosted over, slick ice covering the pathways; the water usually flowing in the stone fountain that sat in the center was completely frozen solid, halfway through its descent. The blinding whiteness stretched as far as the prince could see, past the citadel walls, dusting over the treetops, the lake and streams frozen a pale, dusty blue, all the way to the ridge of mountains that marked their northern border. And still, plump clouds swirled in the sky above, and the powder continued to fall, though not thick enough to obscure his vision.

He heard the slight creak of his door opening, and he could see, through the reflection of the window, his nursemaid entering the room.

"Oh, sire, thank goodness you're awake," Mistress Hudson sighed, not pausing for an apology at the intrusion, which Sherlock noted meant things were of dire importance. He turned to her and noticed the scroll of parchment clutched in her left hand, her right crossed over her chest to rest against her heart. She opened her mouth to say more, then shook her head, holding out the paper to him. He frowned, retrieving it from her grip and unrolling it, smoothing it between his fingers. He quickly recognized his brother's looped script in midnight blue ink against the off-white paper.

His eyes flew over words, from the appalling greeting of '_brother mine_' to phrases like '_bequeath unto you_' and '_as fulfillment of your wishes tonight_'. His jaw clenched, as did his hands, crumpling the paper roughly between his fingers.

"When did you find this?" he demanded, looking to the woman.

"Not that long ago, sire," she assured him with a frown.

"It was written last night," he murmured, primarily to himself. His eyebrows knit together as he narrowed his eyes at the paper again, trying to absorb anything else he could from the letter.

It was then that Molly rushed through the open door to his bedchamber. "Sire," she said, panting slightly as though she'd run to meet him. "Sire—"

"He's gone," Sherlock said simply, making his way over to his desk and setting the paper down before turning to the wardrobe and snatching out a clean shirt. He shed the one he'd slept in, which caused the younger woman to blush and avert her eyes at his lack of modesty. "It's already been evidenced what can potentially happen when he's provoked." He glanced up at Molly fleetingly as he yanked the shirt on over his head, not bothering with the laces; sensing that it was safe to look again, her eyes met his and she frowned as though catching on to what he might be implying. "But this—_this_…" He picked up the parchment once more and shook it slightly at the two women, then dropped it again. "This isn't him. This isn't about me. There's something more—something…"

"You think that this is your brother's doing, sire?" Molly asked tentatively, and Mistress Hudson gasped softly, searching Molly, then Sherlock, for a further explanation; _ah, yes_—to some this was all still a _secret_.

"Unintentionally," Sherlock answered, ignoring the questioning look from the older lady. Explanations could wait for a more reasonable time. For now, there were more pressing matters. "We know how much he adores his kingdom," he continued, unable to keep the slight sarcasm and bitterness from his voice. "Mistress Hudson, what have you heard from the people in the lower town?"

"Your highness, I don't…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm well aware that you're in the market every other morning, seeking out gossip and providing your own fair share, so please, let's forgo the excuses and head straight to the point," he said calmly, advancing from behind his desk to look down at the woman.

She huffed out breath through her nose, glowering at the prince. "They're in a bit of a state, sire," she informed him. "They believe it to be magic. A curse. Though where it came from, they definitely don't have an idea." She waved her hand dismissively at that. "But they're unprepared is the problem," she went on. "They're worried about food and many don't have enough dry wood or the right supplies to survive a winter."

"Of course not, it's meant to be summer, with plenty of time to take the proper measures to ensure they have all that they need," Sherlock murmured, snatching up his jacket and pulling it on before seating himself and putting on his boots. "Mycroft wouldn't intentionally harm the people of his country," he said. "And if he was… _emotionally compromised_," he sneered a little at the last two words, "then it can be assumed this was a reaction to his state." Again he looked to Molly. "Much like yesterday evening." She nodded warily as he got to his feet. "For the time being…" he grimaced as he trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air: _he would have to take over, to step up and, for all intents and purposes, be king_. "Mistress Hudson, see to it that rations are provided to those who need it," he ordered her listlessly. "The grain store should be sufficient for some time. Just…" He paused, frowning slightly. This wasn't his place. What more could be done? What could they offer? He had to act quickly, to make decisions, but these were not ones that he had ever given thought to. "Ensure that we are doing all that we can to help," he finished lamely. Still, she nodded and left the room.

"Is there anything I can do?" Molly asked, looking at the prince expectantly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I expect I'll be having a visitor soon," he said evenly, now taking a moment to tie the lace of his shirt and fasten the buttons of his jacket. He ruffled his hair a little, smoothing and tugging at it in the hopes of something presentable. "When he's arrived, you are to get me immediately. Until then, I'll be researching in the king's chambers."

Molly nodded, twisting her hands. "Sire," she said softly, "if I may ask… why did your brother leave?"

"I'm expecting that explanation soon," Sherlock told her flatly.

"From your visitor?" she asked, and he hummed in response. Again, she shifted a little awkwardly, opening her mouth once or twice without saying anything before finally settling on: "Do you expect him—your brother—to come back?"

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock said evenly.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time he spent in his brother's room, reading through papers and letters and books he kept organized on his desk and shelves. However, he was thoroughly disappointed by the time the next morning dawned, and he'd still found nothing that provided a clue. He even regretfully acknowledged that the half-hidden attempt at finding out more information about his brother's secret was a failure, as well. He had thought that he might be able to uncover something-some sort of reason or explanation for things: not only his disappearance the day before, but perhaps even a _hint_ about the years he spent hiding away.

Though Sherlock resolutely (albeit repeatedly) convinced himself that he didn't care. It didn't matter to him. And no matter what delusional opinions Molly alluded to, he most certainly wasn't _hurt_ by the matter. He didn't feel anything, let alone _hurt_.

That was ridiculous. It all was.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock glanced up at the servant, who held a tray of food. However, he wasn't interested in the least. He waved the girl off without hesitation, looking back down to the papers on the desk. She paused, then turned, her head down, and, a little dejectedly, left the room. She met Molly in the doorway; the brunette glanced at the servant, then back to Sherlock as the young girl bustled out of the room.

"Have you eaten at all, sire?" she asked warily, entering the king's chambers fully, but he didn't even look up at her. She approached him slowly, hands clasped in front of her.

"It slows me down," he told her dismissively, and she huffed out a sigh of exasperation.

"You know that isn't true, my lord," she said, and he fixed her with a brief glare. "Have you at least _slept_?" He was silent as he sat back into Mycroft's chair, pressing his fingers together in front of his lips. "If you let your health deteriorate, the kingdom will find itself without _any_ king."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am not the king," he snapped. He dropped his hands, and they clenched at the arms of the chair for a brief moment.

"Well, you're the closest we have, your highness!" she said, desperately wanting him to understand; she knew that he had been formulating a plan, but he did not divulge any of the details. Instead, she and the rest of the castle staff who were aware of the king's departure were left to adjust the best that they could, and that involved assuming Sherlock as the king, even if not officially. However, Sherlock still refused the position, and so she was met with silence. She sighed tiredly. "I actually came to fetch you because..."

"He's come, then," Sherlock said, his features brightening slightly, but also sharpening with the promise of the challenge. She could very nearly see the way his mind suddenly began to work furiously once more.

She nodded once. She made to respond, then paused. She withdrew slightly, looking at him with uncertainty. "You didn't say, sire," she said softly. "That-well, that it'd be..."

The prince got to his feet, drawing himself to his full height and looking down at Molly. "You can hardly stomach the sight of him," Sherlock observed, and she laughed nervously.

"No, I can't, sire," Molly agreed. "I certainly didn't expect that I would have to again, I admit."

"If all goes as I have planned, then it will be hardly necessary after this," he responded evenly. Molly's cheeks flushed against her will; she knew that it wasn't so much of a promise of her protection as it was a threat against the other man, but she couldn't stop herself. Still, she reminded herself that she was nothing to the prince; he'd made that clear on several occasions. Instead she ignored the warm feeling that was blossoming in her chest as it often did near the man.

"Can I do anything to help?" she asked, looking at him hopefully.

"I think it's only polite that we offer our guest tea," Sherlock said after a moment. "You needn't be the one to serve it, if you're so repulsed, but inform the kitchens, and have it brought to the parlor. He's to wait there for me, so a guard can escort him there; I'll be down in just a moment."

Molly glanced at Sherlock warily, but he said no more, so she nodded sharply before curtseying and leaving the room.

* * *

When Sherlock entered the room, James Moriarty was sitting in one of the wingback armchairs, legs crossed and quietly sipping tea. He didn't even look up until the prince settled himself in the chair across from him.

"I must admit, the hospitality thus far has been far batter than the last time, sire," the man stated. "Tea and biscuits are preferable to the gruel that I'm fairly certain your brother didn't even wish to feed me. I suppose you're already proving yourself to be a superior ruler."

Sherlock ignored the last comment. It would not benefit him to fall for Moriarty's baiting. Instead, he picked up his own cup of tea. "Everything is to your liking, then?" he inquired in false cordiality, raising his eyebrows in polite question.

"But of course, your highness-I mean, your _majesty._" The grin that Moriarty wore was infuriating, but again Sherlock didn't allow himself to rise to the taunt. This was what had helped cause this mess, after all. He'd been told he was rash; Mistress Hudson had always written it off as being due to his still young age and the lack of a proper caring figure in his life. Sherlock generally ignored these excuses and all that they implied. He didn't care for the opinions of others, and he certainly didn't care for their ill-conceived notions regarding his life and what was potentially missing from it. They were all idiots, anyway.

"I'm glad you're so pleased with the state of the kingdom." Sherlock chose his words carefully. He was all too aware that Moriarty had played a hand in this; he only needed to determine the extent of his part. Then, he could determine the measures that needed to be taken.

"Ah," Moriarty responded with a sigh. "I have to admit, sire, that I'm not entirely pleased," he admitted. "There is one rather concerning aspect... I'm sure you're well aware, of course."

"Unfortunately, the weather is out of my control," Sherlock told him flatly.

"Yet not out of your brother's, apparently," the other man responded pointedly. "As I assume that this was _his_ doing, after his little display the other evening. It is the only conclusion I am led to."

"So it would seem," Sherlock agreed. "However, I fear I remain uninformed about his current whereabouts, in regard to his disappearance."

"Yes…" Moriarty sighed. He set his tea down on the table and leaned forward toward the prince, his elbows resting on his knees. "I would like to assist with that." Moriarty smiled. "You see, your brother and I made a deal," he explained. "He would leave the kingdom. In return, not only would I not reveal the secret of his powers to the people, but I would let you finish your rule as king without interfering. There were a few other details thrown in there, but they aren't pertinent for this conversation." He gestured dismissively.

"And why would you do that?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. He sipped at his tea, schooling his features to a cool indifference. He would not let Moriarty get under his skin so easily.

Moriarty chuckled. "I am sure that you can guess my motives—it is fairly obvious."

"To have the crown for yourself," Sherlock said with a sigh. It _was_ completely obvious. "But why like _this_?" he asked instead, emphatically.

"Ahh, yes," Moriarty nodded. "I don't want a broken kingdom, sire. I'm sure you've determined that I can easily conduct a revolt or even merely take the crown using the force of an army. It would be so simple. But then what am I left with?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs again, hands gripping onto the armrests. "Death. Suffering. Not that I care about that, really, in the grand scheme of things, but it makes things much more difficult in the end. And _forcing_ subjects into loyalty? No, it is much better to be patient. With time, the kingdom _will_ be mine. But I can keep my word and let you have your turn."

Sherlock raised a shoulder in a shrug. "You could wait for quite some time," he pointed out.

"Oh, my lord…" Moriarty chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "No, I won't have to wait very long at all. We both know that this," he waved his hand with a fluttering movement, "isn't what you want. You weren't raised for this. The spare son… And what's more, you aren't _fit_ to properly be king. You don't have the disposition. You could rule, but what of your people? They would not love or respect you, you're too cold, too flippant and indifferent…"

"And you are different?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh, I don't expect them to revere me," Moriarty said dangerously, his dark eyes shining. "I expect them to _fear_ me. But that doesn't matter. You won't be alive to see that. Because _this_ will _destroy_ you."

"And in regard to the current state of the kingdom—this frost. If I don't help you to fix it, then you will likely inherit a destroyed country anyway."

Moriarty nodded in agreement. "Yes," he conceded. "But in that case, I will have your brother brought to me. I will explain that he was the source of this suffering. And when I kill the both of you, I will be the king that saved them." He paused. "I'm sure his death could lift the curse. However, it's easier this way, sire," he said coldly, and the prince clenched his jaw. "You find your brother, you get him to _stop_ this unnatural winter, and things can continue on as I promised him. Otherwise, we take the route where the king's death brings about the return of summer. You would have his blood on your hands just as much as I would."

Sherlock glared at him. "And I suppose you know where my brother is?" he inquired evenly. He took a mouthful of tea, but it tasted suddenly bitter. He swallowed it harshly.

"I had him followed," Moriarty supplied simply. "To ensure that he would not return."

"And you are incapable of convincing him yourself?"

"It would be… inconvenient," Moriarty said, bringing his hands together on his lap, tilting his head to the side. "And I do believe that his brother is more likely to succeed." He smiled again. "Besides, the game is _much_ more fun this way."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, setting his tea aside with forced gentleness. "I don't have to play your games." He lifted his chin in a way he thought reminiscent of his older brother.

"It's your choice," Moriarty said, shrugging. "You can choose not to play, but you will forfeit with your life, as well as your brother's. Maybe even your precious nursemaid's, if I decide it." A pause, and he leaned forward again in a predatory manner. "So what will you decide?"

"Where is he?" Sherlock bit out, dropping his chin low again and furrowing his brow; now his expression was more intimidating, more menacing. It held less the air of superiority and instead suggested that he was not a man to be messed with. It was something that the criminal needed to know. "And how long do I have until you make the decision for me?"

Moriarty grinned maliciously. "I'm feeling generous," he said, the sweet, sing-song lilt returning to his voice in a way that made Sherlock's insides turn and his skin crawl unpleasantly. "I will give you ten days; that's more than enough time to reach the North Mount, speak with your brother, and return to the citadel. And if his temporary return is necessary to help thaw everything, then I'll even do you the favor of promising to _not_ kill him on sight."

Sherlock sat for a moment, flexing his fingers and pressing his lips together in a tight line. He could just have Moriarty killed. That would be the simplest, wouldn't it?

"My own death would be so much more complicated than you believe, sire," Moriarty sighed after a moment, and he pushed himself up from his chair; Sherlock didn't bother wondering how the man knew what he was contemplating. He assumed that it was written all over his face. "You could have me killed, but then what? All those who have worked for me? They won't simply stop with my own death. My work will be continued. And believe me, it will only be so much worse." He made his way to the door of the parlor before turning briefly to the other man. "You have ten days," he said simply, and he sounded almost excited at the prospect of the new game. "Choose what you wish, but be aware that your deadline is already approaching rather quickly."

And with that, the man left, leaving the prince behind him. The guard outside the door escorted him back out of the castle, and Moriarty grinned at the door that closed behind him.

Of course, he was the one who started this game. He wrote the rules, and he could just as easily rewrite them to suit his needs. He could make them bend to his will so that he wasn't breaking them at all. He was a master at games like this—it was really a pity that Prince Sherlock had to be playing against him instead of for him. But in the end, it didn't matter. He'd get what he wanted.

This was all just a small hitch in his plan. He would make a few small alterations, and in the end he would still get the crown, just as easily. He was _very_ changeable, after all.


	3. There's Beauty and There's Danger Here

**Beware the Frozen Heart  
**

_Cut through the heart, cold and clear;_  
_strike for love and strike for fear._  
_There's beauty and there's danger here._  
_Split the ice apart!  
Beware the frozen heart..._

* * *

**Notes: **Story and chapter titles from "Frozen Heart" from the Frozen soundtrack. There are many references to various Disney kingdoms, minor Sherlock characters, Medieval weapons and poisons/substances/"drugs".

Apologies again for taking a while to write, but this has been turning out to be a beast. Hopefully the length and the appearance of John will make up for it!

* * *

At first light, Sherlock took his horse from the stables and left the citadel. He did not tell Mistress Hudson or Molly of his plan; it was unnecessary that they know before his departure. Instead, he left a scroll at his bedside, where he knew at least one of the women was likely to check. He didn't provide any details, only explaining that he'd left to find the king and would be back within ten days; in the meantime, they were to continue seeing that the kingdom was cared for in the bitter cold weather.

The journey was proving to be tougher than expected as the snow continued to slowly accumulate; the snowfall had been greatly reduced since the initial storm, now only a flurry. Still, he quickly grew frustrated with the number of stops he had to make, resting by a fire to ward off frostbite. As evening approached, he became very aware of the fact that he'd traveled only about half the distance he had expected; suddenly Moriarty's deadline of ten days seemed a lot sooner than he'd initially anticipated—to be able to make it to the mountain, convince his brother to do something, and then return to the kingdom… that would be a challenge.

The forest around him thickened immensely, and with the snow, trying to find the correct path was proving troublesome. Sherlock let out a breath of frustration and dismounted his horse; he glanced around, making his best attempt at gaining some sort of recognition of the surrounding area. It was no use; he would merely have to do his best to follow path where the trees thinned, almost like a sort of tunnel. If he was lucky, some signs of past travellers might be evident, and that would be able to aid him in his journey.

It was then that Sherlock noticed how silent the forest was, and he froze. He'd traveled as far as the woods a few times during his escapes from the palace walls, and it was the complete stillness that unnerved him. Even in the storm he knew that there should be something—the call of a bird or the cry of a fox; even the low, chilling growl of a nearby stalking wolf would be more welcome than this. Instead, the quietness engulfed the area completely.

Instantly Sherlock's hand found the hilt of his sword. He narrowed his eyes, keenly glancing around, turning as slowly as he could.

A shout was made, a battle cry from one of a half dozen men as they charged toward the prince. He drew his sword from its scabbard, barely yanking it free to defend himself against the first blow. Their swords clanged against each other and Sherlock was thankfully able to quickly disarm him, then slamming the hilt of his sword into his skull so he fell to the ground; he was only allowed a second to breathe, however, before the next two were simultaneously aiming their attacks at him.

The noise of the skirmish startled Sherlock's horse, and it fled the scene. The prince didn't have a moment to lament his loss of the creature and his supplies, instead earnestly fighting for his life against the men in the forest while his mind simultaneously took in what it could: dressed like bandits, but with well-forged weapons—though not with the well-worn tales of a previous owner, so they weren't stolen; adequately trained, though not quite the caliber of a knight or member of the army, unable to match some of Sherlock's quicker and more sophisticated blocks and thrusts and lunges—likely they were relieved of their duties or positions before training completion.

His thoughts overtook him for a moment too long, and he felt the sting of steel against flesh; one man's blade cut through his cloak and coat, only made of wool, with no armor or chainmail beneath. He swore silently as he instinctively clutched the wound. He winced as he raised his sword once more, but the man crumpled before he could strike again. Sherlock watched the man's body hit the ground and looked up to see the man who'd stopped him. He was shorter than himself with dark blond hair. He was wrapped warmly in a combination of heavy workers' clothes and leather, acting like armor. He was already fighting off one of the three remaining men, easily evading the bandit's moves and quickly thrusting his blade into his side instead. Immediately he was on the next man, who seemed to be a fairer match, and the two seemed engaged for a moment, sparks flying as the swords hit with the sheer force from each wielder.

The other bandit came running at the helpful man, and Sherlock didn't hesitate. His hand left the wound on his arm and he gripped his sword tightly, lunging forward and driving it through the raider's belly. At the same time, the man struck a final blow against his opponent, and turned to Sherlock, cheeks rosy as he panted, his breath visible in front of him.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the prince's arm; Sherlock himself was surprised that he didn't flinch away at the man's touch, but he reasoned that in some ways he was his savior. He instantly found himself trusting the man, albeit a little reluctantly.

"Come," he said to Sherlock, tugging at his arm, and they made their way quickly though the snow. "I doubt there are more, but just to be safe…"

Sherlock didn't answer, and he didn't ask any questions as he fled with the man. As they made their way through the forest, Sherlock noticed the distant scent of burning wood; the man was taking him to his camp, then. He led Sherlock to a small den, which appeared to be a hollowed out area of rock and hill. The prince had to admire the man's resourcefulness; it was not easily noticeable, and thus unlikely that they would be targeted by thieves. In fact, he figured that, unless someone knew it was there, it would be passed by without a glance. It would be a safe spot, if even for a few moments.

The man unceremoniously shoved Sherlock inside; he had to duck into the entrance, and he was crouching a little uncomfortably once inside, his head brushing the dirt ceiling. Still, compared to the cold outside, this was bearable, with the fire emanating a cozy heat. The man yanked Sherlock down to sit on a rock beside the fire, and he instantly began picking at the torn fabric around the slice in his arm.

"It doesn't look too terrible," the man said absently, peeling the fabric back, which was tricky as the sticky red blood plastered it to his skin. "Can you remove these so I can clean it and have a proper look?"

Sherlock silently yanked off his cloak and coat. When he got to his shirt, he undid the laces, yet struggled slightly in pulling it off, so the other man stilled his movements with gentle hands. Instead, he pushed the white linen down past his shoulder, careful not to drag it over the wound.

The man took a pot of water near the fire and dipped a cloth into it before lightly pressing it to Sherlock's upper arm. He quickly, gently cleaned the blood away, until just the small gash was visible against his porcelain skin.

"Should be fine," the man muttered. "It bled a bit, but it's a fairly little cut. Not even deep." He then grabbed the bottom of his own shirt, beneath his external layers, and ripped a strip of cloth right off. He wrapped it tightly around Sherlock's arm to prevent further bleeding. "You'll live." He looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time and breaking out into a winning grin.

Sherlock remained silent, staring curiously at the man, who then got to his feet, brushing off his knees. "I don't suppose you have a camp set up?" he asked, and Sherlock shook his head. "You're welcome to stay here for the night." He smiled genially again, then shuffling over to rifle through a rucksack. "I'm John. I don't live too far from here, but I'd rather not be traveling after night with weather like this. Suppose it all ended up a bit good since I was able to lend a hand against those bandits, though."

"They weren't bandits," Sherlock murmured, and John turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"They weren't?" he asked, frowning.

"They were trained decently, and they were armed with quality weapons that weren't stolen," he relayed to the other man. "And beside that, they were clearly intent on especially attacking me, or else one might have been quicker to salvage my belongings when my horse fled."

John's mouth fell open slightly, as he looked at Sherlock disbelievingly. "How could you even think to determine all of that?" he queried.

"The same way that I can determine you had aspirations to be a physician—likely one of the court if you could manage—but were resigned to return home with the passing of your father, and left to take over his position as blacksmith, especially considering your elder brother is a drunkard."

John's eyes widened, the corners of his lips turning a little into a curious frown. "How—"

"Your determination to give immediate care to my wound suggests you were at least for some time studying medicine, though you don't carry the traditional herbs or tinctures, and you needed to rip your shirt for a make-shift bandage, " Sherlock told him. "You've offered a reluctance to return home, with the weather and approaching night as an excuse, though you've admitted you live close. Knowledge of such an unnoticeable hideaway as this would confirm that you are familiar with the area. The fire has also been burning quite some time, so you didn't decide to suddenly find shelter for the evening, you've been waiting here for some time. So, you must have wanted to work far away. Yet, you've been forced to remain at home, out of a sense of duty or obligation. Likely, then, the death of your father. Your style of fighting is clearly self-taught, and the sword you own doesn't quite fit you—undoubtedly sentimental value, so you grew up around a forge where you would be able to teach yourself about the sword, and where you'd be able to acquire one of personal value."

"And my brother?" John pressed on. He shifted himself to sit facing Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged at the man's prompting. "A blacksmith seems less likely to permit his son to leave home unless there was someone else able and willing to take his place, so an older brother. There is an engraved 'H' near the hilt of your sword, but you've just informed me that your name is John. The blade must have been his—and the scratches speak of more than just those incurred from unsheathing or small skirmishes. They are too deep to be ground out, so the previous owner must not have taken care of the blade. In all likelihood, he often handled it drunk."

John continued to stare at Sherlock, eyes wide and disbelieving. "That… that was quite amazing," he said, blinking.

"Honestly?" Sherlock responded in mild surprise.

"Yes, but, of course," John laughed. "My gods…" He shook his head slightly at himself.

"I must admit, you're one of the first to respond in such a way," he said. He looked away from the other man and down at the fire that was crackling in the small sanctuary.

"Really?" John said. "How is it that others generally respond, then?"

Sherlock chuckled dryly. "They generally excuse themselves from my presence with little regret."

"You were wrong on one account, though," John said, his mouth quirking up into a cheeky grin.

Sherlock's head jerked back to him and he raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"

"I have a sister, not a brother," John explained.

"A _sister_?"

"Yes, well, Harriet was quite fond of helping my father in the forge, and he couldn't really deny her," he continued, a bit of laughter in his voice.

"It's always something," Sherlock responded in a sigh, directing his gaze away once more and shaking his head slightly to himself.

John was quiet for a moment, as Sherlock continued to stare at the fire and the dirt floor, trying his best to soak up all of the warmth emanating from the flames. He carefully reached out and laid his coat and cloak beside it, in hopes that they might become dry and warm by the time he replaced them on his body. John watched the man do this without a word.

"You're a nobleman, aren't you?" he asked after a moment, and Sherlock looked up at him with a quirked brow. "I know that what I'm capable of seeing is nothing compared to what you clearly can, but I can take a guess." He smiled a little. "It's pretty obvious from your clothes, and the way you hold yourself. And your own sword, well—I haven't seen many with such brilliant craftsmanship. It bears the signs of a nobleman's blacksmith, or at least one of the wealthier gentry."

Sherlock glanced over John once more. He reasoned there was no immediate need for him to admit his true status; in fact, he was fairly certain that if he was quick to disclose this, Mistress Hudson would scold him for being so careless. After all, royalty was never without enemies.

And even though he knew immediately that John meant him no harm for any reason, he almost liked this odd sort of friendly companionship he was offering, no matter how fleeting it may be. Yet here, he was treated as a person rather than his title.

"Yes," he replied. "I am." He paused, quickly making up his mind. "But I would prefer no formal addresses."

John nodded once. "And where are you headed to?" he asked.

"The North Mount," Sherlock responded.

"_Really_?" John asked incredulously. "Well, that—that's where the storm seems to have come from."

"I'm aware," Sherlock said shortly.

John licked his lips, looking at the taller man a little warily. "Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "I suppose then that rest would be good?" he offered. "I've an extra blanket." He got to his knees and reached over to his pack, where two small covers were rolled together. "It isn't much, but considering you've lost your own supplies…"

Sherlock nodded, taking the blanket that was offered to him. It was soft but worn a little thin. After the prince removed his boots and set them close to the fire, he eased himself off of his seat on the rock. Sherlock settled himself on the ground beside the fire, and laid his cloak over himself as well as the blanket, folding his coat to rest beneath his head. He curled himself up, trying to remain in the confines of the quilt. He faced away from the other man, eyes focused on the dirt wall beside him, watching the lazy shadows cast by the flickering orange light of the flames. He heard John as he got into a similar position, removing his boots and shuffling his things around until at last a silence fell in the small cove.

* * *

When John awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. More kindling had been added to the fire, and the blanket he'd lent had been folded neatly, the dark-haired man's coat, cloak, and boots were all gone. He frowned at the thought that the other man had left so swiftly. He wasn't sure why, but it left him with a sense of loss. But what had he expected? He hadn't even been given the nobleman's name.

And it wasn't as though they'd made some promise to continue their journeys together. No, he was just being silly. There was no reason that he _would_ have stayed.

With a sigh, he picked himself from the ground, running a hand through his hair before yanking on his hat and boots. He then doused the fire and collected his things. Harriet would worry if he didn't return soon; he figured he should get a start already.

At that moment, there was a sound at the entrance of the small shelter and John whipped around. He was surprised to see the nobleman entering again.

He looked curiously at John. "You thought I already departed," he said blankly, and the shorter man felt his cheeks burn with shame and embarrassment.

"I… er, I did," he admitted, getting to his feet. He smiled a little awkwardly. "Where did you head off to, then?"

At that, Sherlock held out the waterskin to him, and John's blush deepened. "Oh, you…" He cleared his throat. "Thank you." Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking at John, scrutinizing him. "I, er… I didn't mean to expect the worst of you," he said quickly. "I just—you were gone, and, well, I figured… I mean, I don't even know your _name_."

"That's unimportant," the nobleman said hastily.

John frowned a little but didn't press the subject. "Well, I wanted to offer you some aid," he said instead. "If you want it, that is. As you have no supplies left, I thought perhaps I could give you a little food and at least a blanket, perhaps a spare waterskin. I'm not sure what we have ready at my home, but…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little. "You don't even know my name, and you want to offer me help?" he asked, a slight edge in his voice.

"Well, yes," John said with a frown. "Why wouldn't I?" He shrugged a little, uneasy that he was expected to explain an act of kindness to the noble. "It's what good people do."

Sherlock grimaced in return. "And you offer me this after you've already helped save my life," he continued after a moment, as though he still couldn't understand the puzzle before him. "Is there something you are looking for in return?"

"What? No!" John told him quickly, picking up his bag, and pressing past Sherlock into the cold. The sun was bright and high in the sky, but there was still the sharp, bitter chill that clung to the air. He squinted against the brightness of the white snow surrounding them, and then began to walk, Sherlock quickly following him. "I just… I don't know, I _want_ to help. That's not wrong, is it?"

"Hmm…" Sherlock hummed to himself, but didn't offer a proper answer.

After a moment, John sighed. "I live probably about an hour's walk from here," he explained. "Usually less, but considering the snow, that would be my guess." He hoisted the bag on his shoulder up a little further. "I may be able to offer you a bath before you continue on," he said after a moment. "The good thing about living as a blacksmith is there's almost always a fire going on with the forge, so we'll be able to heat some water. If you're lucky, Harriet might have attempted to cook."

Sherlock was silent, but continued to consider John. The man was so kind and willing to help, without knowing his true identity. That was what struck him. He'd received kindnesses, naturally, but they'd almost always been with the understanding that he was the prince; he was certain that had he not been of royal blood, most of those who treated him so well would not even attempt it. Yet here was a man willingly helping him without the knowledge that he was prince, or that he could ultimately pay him for his services with his weight in gold.

John was a puzzle that Sherlock didn't quite understand, and he wasn't sure how that made him feel.

Though, he reasoned, that was unimportant. For now what truly mattered was his quest to find his brother. He had to put an end to the dreadful winter that had fallen.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched John, following his every move. _Perhaps_ he could be of more assistance than what was offered. He let himself collect information from the smaller man—hard worker, yet not very well-off; clearly a heroic nature and strong moral values. Surely this man would want to ensure Sherlock's safety in his journey? He'd already saved his life once, and adequately patched up his wound. Perhaps if he did in fact offer compensation, a hefty remittance in return for his company to the North Mount, he would be willing. It was likely John had horses—likely one for him and one for his sister, so that they might not have to walk to entirety of the trip.

Maybe, just maybe, he could convince him.

It was not much later that the duo came upon a small cluster of buildings, all small cottages grouped together in a very small village. Sherlock could almost imagine the tiny town usually busy with life on the road during the summer, but now it looked very dead, all of the doors and windows shut on the houses.

They passed one small cottage, and a dark-haired woman tentatively peeked out the window. "John!" she called, and the man paused, turning.

"Hello, Clara," he smiled. He trudged over to the window, where the woman had disappeared from, only to return a moment later with a cloth bundle, holding it out to him. Up close, Sherlock registered the sadness hinting at her soft features and doe-like eyes.

"I made these for you and your sister," she said, a little slowly, staring at the package as John took them, opening them slightly to see a batch of beautifully iced cookies.

"Lumbolls?" John said with a grin.

"I know they're Harry's favorite," she responded, and John nodded at this.

"Thank you, Clara," he responded, wrapping up the small biscuits again. She nodded and waved the two men off.

Sherlock followed John until they reached one home—it was small and compact, though there were two stories (Sherlock reasoned the ground level was for business, while the upstairs was where John and his sister resided). The chimney was emanating smoke in a steady clouded stream, signifying that John was truthful with his statement that they always kept the fire lit.

John pushed the door to the house open, holding it for Sherlock to enter behind him. "It's small," he said, and Sherlock could almost hear a small sense of embarrassment, "but it is home." He dropped his bag near the door and toed off his boots, taking them over to the fire; a basin was there, filled with warming water. A black pot sat at the table, covered, and John opened it tentatively. "Looks like Harry's made some stew."

It was then that a young woman pushed back the curtain that separated the back half of the house into two tiny rooms. She looked very much like John in her face, though she was taller and leaner, and her straight hair just a bit darker and her eyes a little bit duller in their shade of blue. She beamed at her brother for a moment before her eyes fell upon the prince. She frowned at him before turning back to John, opening her mouth.

"Harry, this—this is, erm—" John answered before she could ask, gesturing to Sherlock, but at a loss without his name.

"John saved my life," Sherlock answered instead. "He offered me a quick meal and a bath before I continue on to the North Mount."

Harriet's eyebrows shot up comically. "The North Mount?" she asked. "You're out of your right mind." She shook her head.

"Harry, don't be like that," John chided. "This man is of noble blood."

"And without a name, unknown and unannounced," the woman challenged, folding her arms over her chest. "Perhaps he is of nobility, yet as far as I'm concerned, I'm within my rights to request some respect myself before I offer it in return."

Sherlock readied himself to respond, albeit a little heatedly, but before he could do so, John gritted his teeth. "He is my guest, Harriet," he said in a low voice. "His name is not of importance. It is just as much my home, and so he is to be welcomed."

Harriet opened her mouth to speak again, but Sherlock cut across, "Don't pay her any mind, John," he said swiftly, his tone cool. "Your sister is reacting poorly due to the quarrel she's had with her lover."

Harry rounded on him. "_Excuse me_?" she demanded, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Secret lover, then, I presume," he amended casually. "The baker's daughter, Clara? Though whether the row was due to the disapproval of her father or your drinking, I can't be certain. She is the one who feels apologetic, however, if she baked your favorite sweet." He glanced over to John. "And I can assume that you've not made your brother aware of such a relationship, judging by this own look of surprise."

Harriet's cheeks burned a rosy pink color, her eyes looking furious. "_You—_" she hissed, pointing a threatening finger at the prince. "You have _no right_—"

"Harry." She turned quickly to her brother, glaring at him. His face, however, was impassive. He took the pot of water from the fire, and held it out for her. "Take this, please," he said evenly. "I'll put more water on for myself." Harriet snatched it from him and stomped off, behind the curtain. There was a clang as the bucket was dropped. He turned to Sherlock, just as Harriet pushed past the two men and trudged up the stairs, the prince's eyes following her until there was a slamming of a door. "She's not usually that quick to anger," John said evenly. "She's already been drinking a bit this morning, then." He sighed. "Clean up, and then you can have some food before you continue on your way."

Sherlock turned his attention back to John after a moment, but the man was ladling stew into a wooden bowl, his back to the prince. Frowning slightly, Sherlock stripped off his cloak and jacket and boots before sliding the curtain aside and entering the back half of the house. To the side was a partition, beside which was the bucket of water.

Slowly, Sherlock poured the water into a wooden tub, and removed the rest of his clothing. He bathed himself swiftly, only in a quick effort of getting off the dirt instead of a thorough cleaning. Within ten minutes he was dried off and he redressed, returning to the front of the house. John was seated at the work table, eating quietly, though Sherlock did notice the man must have moved the prince's boots and other things beside the fire. A second bowl was at the table, and Sherlock took a seat across from John.

"I wish for you to accompany me to the North Mount," Sherlock said without preamble, and John's hand froze, spoon poised halfway to his mouth. He looked up at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"You want me… to come with you?" he asked incredulously. "After you properly insult my sister?" He stared at the prince, who did not respond. John dropped the spoon back into the bowl and shook his head. "She's right, you are out of your right mind."

"It isn't as though you and your sister are close," Sherlock argued. "Your reluctance has nothing to do with what I said to her. You weren't even especially eager to defend her against my statements. You even stated yourself that she's likely to be drunk already, if not on her way."

John continued to shake his head and pushed himself up from the table. "That's beside the point."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Sherlock agreed, and he stood up as well, approaching the other man. "The point is that I've made it known to you I intend to travel to the very place that seems to hold the source of this storm. I've lost my horse and supplies; you've already managed to save my life once." John turned to him, eyes narrowed slightly. "And _you_ are quite eager to play the hero. You have a thirst for adventure and danger that has not quite been quenched, and in fact has only worsened in the day that you've known me."

"I haven't—"

"And if that was not enough motivation for you, I can offer compensation," Sherlock continued, and John snapped his jaw shut for a moment.

"I don't want your money."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock conceded, "but you do need it. I can see from the state of your house and your belongings that while you are surviving, you are hardly thriving in the way you once hoped you might. You are hardly getting by, and I can offer you enough gold to ensure that any problems you have will no longer be of concern to you."

"Assuming that I live through the journey," John bit out a little coldly.

"Ah, but the risk is what makes it worth it," Sherlock smiled.

"It's a bit much to ask, isn't it?" John muttered. "To protect you, when you aren't exactly keen on doing much to help the cause?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter, because you will," he said matter-of-factly.

John huffed out a sigh, taking a second helping of the stew and returning to the table. "And what makes you so certain?"

"As I said, you're eager to be the hero," Sherlock told him. "And I have to believe that you might even want to see me live." John laughed bitterly at this. "You know that your hand could help ensure that I do. I will travel to the mountain with or without you, but you are just as aware that if you accompany me, my chance of survival increases, as well as the odds that this winter might be reversed."

John froze for a moment, then looked back at the taller man. "That's your goal, then?" he asked softly. "To stop the winter?" Sherlock nodded once. "Do you even know what's causing it?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I… have my suspicions," he said.

"And you're, of course, never wrong," John retorted, and though there was a bit of an edge to the tone, something in Sherlock did relax when he noticed that the man was smiling a little bit at him, as though he was teasing.

"It's yet to be proven," he told John, who huffed out a bark of a laugh. He allowed himself a small smile. "But I would be willing to pay immensely, as I said," he continued after a long moment. "It would be fair."

John looked down at his bowl of stew and pushed around the meat and vegetables with his spoon for several long minutes. "Harry won't be happy," he said.

"If that's your only objection, then I believe it's fair that I assume you'll be joining me," Sherlock replied, and John grimaced a little, picking at his food. Sherlock stood patiently, waiting for the affirmation.

"I suppose that the benefits really do manage to outweigh all else," John said after another moment.

"Marvelous," Sherlock responded, clapping his hands together. He immediately moved over to the fire, lifting up his coat. "Then I ought to—"

"_No_," John said sternly, turning slightly in his chair, and Sherlock stopped, looking to him in surprise. "You _ought_ to eat, and let me speak with my sister and pack us some supplies before we're off," he said. "If we are in fact going to be doing this, then I fully intend to do it right, so that we're properly prepared."

Sherlock fought back the strong urge to object or argue, instead making his way back to the table and dropping himself into a chair, looking grudgingly at the bowl before him before lifting the spoon to his mouth.

John nodded curtly at this. "Thank you," he said, and after another spoonful, he finished his stew and stood once more. "Now, I need to discuss this with Harry…"

* * *

The sun was at its highest point in the sky by the time the two men departed again. John had somehow convinced his sister to allow him to use her horse, so the two men ended up riding in a companionable silence for the afternoon; Sherlock guessed that Harry had been persuaded only because that meant Sherlock would be gone sooner, and thus had agreed. The winds had died down and so the cold was less biting; though the journey was still challenging, it was no longer the struggle that Sherlock had encountered that first day.

They managed to avoid another attack, though Sherlock wasn't certain how good that was. He knew that someone was clearly targeting him, but who or why, he could not quite determine.

By the time evening was settling upon them, Sherlock was quite pleased to notice that they'd managed to travel quite a distance from John's tiny hometown. While still reluctant to stop, he did allow for it. They were now back on schedule, and a short rest was acceptable.

As the sky was painted with brilliant hues of pink and orange, Sherlock stood waiting with the horses while John quickly scoped out the surrounding area for some shelter. He came back in a quarter of an hour's time, his cheeks rosy and looking a little breathless, but pleased with himself all the same.

"There's a small cave near the stream, just down that way," he told Sherlock, taking the reigns of his horse so that they could lead them down.

Sherlock followed, and when they reached the cave, just as darkness set in, the two men tied the horses' to a large tree, just at the mouth of the cave. Swiftly, the shorter man took the small supply of wood and kindling he'd taken from home and built a small fire; just enough until they were able to find a little more wood to get them through the night. With a bit of fabric and wood, John created a makeshift torch, which he then handed to Sherlock, and the two returned to the horses. John began unfastening his bag from his horse, when Sherlock froze, putting his hand out toward the other man. Instantly John stilled his movements and he too could hear the crunching of snow.

John quietly withdrew his sword, stepping past Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes as he looked around at the forest, waiting for the intruder. He crept forward, and Sherlock could faintly make out the silhouette of a man and horse, and for a moment he swore the human form seemed vaguely familiar.

The light of the moon and torch caught the man's face and Sherlock quickly reached out to grab John's hand. The older man had greying hair and he was carefully watching his feet as he slid slightly in the ice and snow, slowly leading his horse. Over chainmail he wore a navy blue cape, and Sherlock was certain that if he were to see the back, it would bear his own kingdom's crest.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, frowning deeply, just in time for the man to look up at the two he'd been following.

"I ought to have known it would be you," he said bitterly. "Lestrade, isn't it?"

The man straightened a little at this. "I've come to ensure your safety, your highness," he said in a clipped tone, and then bowed.

Sherlock could feel John stiffen a little beside him, and he swore mentally. He hadn't wanted this to happen; but, of course, John was clever enough. Naturally he'd catch the address, and realize who he was. "_Your highness_?" he asked, eyes wide. "My god, you're the bloody _prince_."

"There were reasons I did not wish to inform you," Sherlock muttered, faltering for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and looked back to Lestrade coldly, who had an eyebrow arched at Sherlock's response to the other man. "And am I to presume that you are the one who has been making my brother aware of everything from the start?" the prince bit out. "Of every time that I made an escape? I knew it was one of your lot—it makes sense that it might be you, the captain of the guard himself. You always were eager to please him."

"I had express orders to tell your brother, your highness," Lestrade responded coolly.

"Your brother…" John muttered under his breath. "You're talking about the king." Sherlock's lips twitched a little as though he wanted to smile; John groaned. "And I made you pour your own bloody bath. _You_ refilled _my_ waterskin for me."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock repeated briskly.

"It does!" John bemoaned, gesturing a little wildly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"When you first asked if I was nobility, it didn't matter," the prince pressed on forcefully. "So then, pray tell, why does it make a difference now? It is all but a title."

John opened his mouth to argue before snapping his jaw shut. Sherlock, satisfied, look back to the captain of the guard, who was staring at the two men curiously. Sherlock felt a little uneasy at the expression; he could only imagine what the other man believed himself to be inferring from the situation. Sherlock knew that it wasn't really any great significance—it was merely due to his hatred of his position. He tried to pay no mind to the fact that John treated him more like an actual human than anyone else he'd ever met—probably even more than Mistress Hudson and Molly. It didn't matter that John thought he was brilliant, and it didn't matter that he held the same interest in danger and adventure. And most of all, Sherlock didn't find Sherlock's presence companionable. No, this truly had nothing to do with John. He'd met the man just over a day ago; he had absolutely no attachment to him.

"You've seen that I'm alive," Sherlock told Lestrade. "Now you're free to return to the castle; put Mistress Hudson and Molly at ease, as they were no doubt concerned by my disappearance."

"I will be seeing you through this quest, your highness," Lestrade replied. "You might be alive today, but tomorrow? No, it's vital that I attend you, sire. It is my duty, after all."

"I don't _want_ your help," Sherlock snapped. "There's really quite little that you can do."

"Your highness." Sherlock whipped back around to John. He frowned at the way the title sounded on the smaller man's lips. It felt more like an insult, after hearing the casual way he'd spoken to him before. "Er—it's just that…" John fidgeted a little under Sherlock's steady gaze. "Well, he may be able to assist," he continued on. "I know that you may be reluctant, but he has more training than I do, and he would be able to fight off an attack more readily." He paused. "And it is important that you succeed, that that your life is not lost in the process."

Sherlock considered his words. Truthfully, the stubborn part of him screamed that he didn't care; he wanted Lestrade gone, and he wanted to go back to pretending that he wasn't royalty, and back to John not treating him as such. He wished the captain had not followed after him. But what good would wishing do? It was just as ridiculous as the notion of magic.

Though, Sherlock bitterly reminded himself, he had realized he had been wrong on that front.

"Very well," he said curtly. He didn't say any more, instead shoving the torch into John's hands and snatching the small bag the blacksmith's son had lent him, holding only a few items within, and stalked off into the cave.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. "I—erm, I started a small fire, but there isn't much extra kindling, so if you wouldn't mind…" Lestrade nodded and, after tethering his horse to a tree, John handed him the torch. Once the man disappeared, John inhaled a deep breath and ventured into the cave.

He found Sherlock sulking, his outermost clothing and his boots resting near the meager fire. Instead, he was wrapped up in John's blanket, his knees drawn up to his chest. John frowned at this and set his bag down before settling himself on the other side of the fire. He licked his lips, wishing he knew the right thing to say to the prince. However, after learning who he was, he felt as though he knew even less about the man. Why lie about his identity? If it really didn't matter, like he said, why not just tell John?

"Sire—"

"Don't." The word was clipped short, and forceful enough that, for a moment, John did stop.

For a few minutes he argued internally over what to say to the man—because, after all, even if the prince argued, he knew that _something_ had to be said—but nothing seemed right. Instead he let his attention turn to the questions that were bubbling up inside of him: questions about the prince, questions about the king, questions about Lestrade…

"Why are you going to the North Mount, sire?" he asked at last.

Sherlock considered him carefully for a moment, his pale eyes roaming over the shorter man's face. The scrutiny made John a little uncomfortable, so he shifted in his seat, but he did not back down. After what felt like ages, Sherlock straightened, lowering his legs so they were crossed like a child's.

"I'm going to find my brother," he said evenly.

This, however, perplexed John even more. "Did he go before you to find the source of the storm?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock responded.

John frowned and shifted again. He leaned forward, hands clasped together. He licked his lips, unsure of what to make of that answer. "Then, if not to fix this winter…"

"He _caused_ this winter," Sherlock explained. "The king has _magic._"

It didn't escape John the way that the last word came out with a sneer. He tilted his head a little as he looked at Sherlock. "You don't… approve of sorcery?"

At this, Sherlock scoffed. "Whether I approve or not is irrelevant," he said. "In actuality, magic in itself is irrelevant to me. That magic exists is a childish notion, something that comes from tales of fairies and monsters and other such creatures. It isn't reality."

"Clearly that isn't true, sire," John replied, carefully and pointedly.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, though offered no other response. "It was miscalculation on his part," he continued after a moment. "When he left, I don't believe he understood what he left behind."

"And now it falls on you to find him and fix it?" John queried.

"In a manner of speaking."

John nodded at this, looking down at his boots before frowning. "I didn't even know that the king _had_ magic," he said.

"You are most certainly not the only one," Sherlock replied, and though the tone was a little venomous, John could tell that wasn't directed at him. He opened his mouth to say more, perhaps to query about the secrecy, but it was then that Lestrade entered the cave, dropping the wood to the ground and putting out the torch.

"It would be best to get some rest before we continue on in the morning," he said, and John nodded. Sherlock didn't say a word, instead laying down and rolling onto his side, back to the others, just as he'd done the night before. Aware that all conversation was not at an end, John peeled off a few of his layers before following suit; now, however, his mind was buzzing insistently with all that he'd found out in the last hour or two.

* * *

John awoke abruptly, to Lestrade shaking his shoulder. He quickly tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes, a hand scrubbing over his face before he looked to the captain.

"We need to get the prince to safety," the older man said, his voice low and even. John's eyebrows shot up at this, instantly feeling awake.

"What—?"

Lestrade was hastily pushing everything into their packs. "I went to water the horses and refill the waterskins, when I heard someone." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, he got away… but I can promise you—"

"There will be more," John finished, moving to put on his boots and heavy outer layers while Lestrade went to fasten the bags to the horses once more. John followed him, his own pack in hand.

"I'll wake the prince," Lestrade said after a moment, returning to the cave while John made sure the saddles and bags were secure.

"This is unnecessary," he heard Sherlock snap a few minutes later, and he turned to watch the prince angrily approaching, Lestrade close behind.

"This is for your own safety!" Lestrade responded heatedly, eyebrows knit together.

Sherlock scoffed. "If they're the same as before, which I presume they are, they will not be a great threat. They can be handled easily, and then we would be _rid of them_—"

"No," John said firmly, and Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised in surprise. The shorter man blushed under the stare, but held his ground. "That is, you've already been wounded, sire."

"All the more reason," Lestrade said, frowning at the prince. "We will try to put as much ground between us and them."

"And when that doesn't work?" Sherlock pressed on coldly.

Lestrade gritted his teeth. "Then _he_—" He jabbed his finger in John's direction. "—will keep running with you, and I'll take care of them myself. You said yourself they were easily taken care of before, so I should be able to do so _without_ you killing yourself."

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before mounting his horse. Sensing that the argument was over, John followed suit, and seconds later, Lestrade did as well, looking a little satisfied that Sherlock was listening, even if only for the time being.

They rode at a trot for some time before slowing back down and allowing the horses to walk. John allowed himself to fall behind a bit so that he was in-line with the prince. He looked at him cautiously to notice that he still looked displeased.

"He's doing this because he cares for you, your highness," John said, but Sherlock just laughed drily.

"He does this because he cares for my title," he said in response. "It is nothing more than his duty."

John shook his head. "I can't believe that."

"It's true," Sherlock said evenly, and a little bitterly. "You can rest assured that people don't _care for me_, John. And frankly, I don't waste my time on such trivial things, either."

John opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off when a crossbow bolt struck the tree beside him. His horse reared onto his hind legs, neighing, and John fell to the ground, his shoulder slamming into the tree that had just been hit by the arrow. He was instantly thankful for the snow for breaking his fall, even if he was left a little damp and chilled by it; still, he knew that the fall would be more damaging had it not been there, beneath him. Another bolt whistled past them and John's horse went running. He swore; John only hoped that the steed found his way back home. He had managed it on further distances, but John knew how different it could prove to be in the snow.

Lestrade was instantly back to them. He was about to say something—most likely to check that John was all right or to urge the two men onward—when three men were suddenly upon them. Instead, he gritted his teeth rode past Sherlock and John, ready for the counter attack. Sherlock saw that the men were again dressed the same, though he quickly registered all three of them seemed broader and larger, using brute power and force along with their skills. Still, the prince could easily calculate the easiest way to defeat them. His hand reached slowly to the hilt of his sword, eager to draw it. He fully intended to defy what Lestrade had ordered him to do, and to fight rather than flee. He could feel his heart hammering with excitement at the thought. There was nothing akin to fear in his veins at that moment.

Then, his eyes flickered to John, who was struggling to get back to his feet, a hand gripping onto his shoulder. Sherlock could see as he bared his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, stumbling a little and falling back down to his knees.

John was not currently fit for this task.

John, who was kind and had already saved Sherlock's life once, would not be able to fight, even if he was steeling himself to the prospect.

John was _wounded_.

The decision was instant. His fingers left his sword and instead returned to the reigns of his horse, who he directed a few steps over. Sherlock then threw his hand down, out for John.

"Come on," he said curtly, and the shorter man looked at him curiously before taking Sherlock's arm. The prince yanked him up, and John seated himself just behind him, hands instantly gripping onto his shoulders once they set off galloping.


End file.
